


Stay With Me, Go Places

by Molias



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Attempted Blackmail, Connor buys a penis, Corgi Pajamas, Feelings, Hank is fat and Connor loves it, Kissing, Knitting, Longing, M/M, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, Nipple Play, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Romance, Sexual Fantasy, Successful Blackmail, lap time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:49:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 69,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22534246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Molias/pseuds/Molias
Summary: Connor's settling into life as a deviant, filling his time with new friends, new hobbies, and...Hank. Hank's glad for him; he wants him to experience every new and exciting thing he can, of course. In the back of his mind, though, he can't help but wonder if Connor will want to stay, once he sees everything else out there.(Of course he will. They figure it out eventually.)
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 88
Kudos: 327





	1. Chapter 1

Summers in Detroit are too fucking hot, Hank thinks, on a particularly unbearable, humid July night. He remembers them being hot and miserable when he was a kid, especially that summer the a/c broke and his parents couldn't afford to fix it for a month. He'd felt like he was melting every night as he tried to sleep, but he knows it's even hotter now. Just a bit warmer, every year.

Still, Sumo needs to go out; he does better with a real walk at night, not just a snuffle around the yard.

Hank does too, he's realized.

So: as the summer progresses, Hank takes him for walks later and later until he's clipping on his leash no earlier than 9:30, when the sun's at least mostly down. It's pitch black by the time he's far from home, but Hank finds that he likes being out that late. Sometimes the fireflies are still out then, too. 

His neighborhood isn't exactly quiet but it isn't lively either, and not much happens late at night. Hank doesn't ever feel uneasy walking by himself; his neighbors either like or tolerate him, the folks in the area who are naturally distrustful of cops know he won't hassle them, and it isn't like Hank looks like an easy target for anyone who might want to try and mug someone out with their dog in the dark.

Sometimes Connor comes with him on these walks, and Hank enjoys that. He spends all day with Connor at work, sure, but just like he finds himself turning unusually introspective when he's alone on these walks, the conversations that pop up between him and Connor when they're out late with Sumo have been interesting, and often very different than what they talk about when Hank's enjoying a beer on the couch and trying to convince Connor to relax a little. He knows Connor wasn't made to relax, knows it comes harder to him. He feels like Connor unwinds just a little bit more when they're out together in the dark, even when they don't talk at all.

Connor's current learn-to-chill-the-fuck-out plan seems to be focused on trying out new hobbies and slowly making friends, which Hank thinks is a great idea; he's sure his own company can't be all that exciting. Connor has his knitting circle on Sunday afternoons at the yarn shop, and he's mentioned a photography class run by some guy who still works in actual film; Hank's pretty sure Connor'll come home with a vintage camera before long, maybe try to set up a darkroom in a closet or something. It seems to be good for him; Hank's seen his mood lighten bit by bit as he slowly expands his social circle and spends time figuring out what he enjoys and wants to spend his time on.

When Hank worries that eventually Connor won't want to spend time on _him_ , once he realizes how many people there are out in the world who are surely better company than Hank is, he pushes that thought to the back of his mind as quickly as he can. Sometimes he has to chase it away with another beer or two. 

Tonight, Connor's at one of what he just calls his "meetings," and while he hasn't directly said it's an android support group, Hank gets the idea that's the group's main purpose. Connor says it's good to talk to other androids about their experiences, how they're settling into life after the revolution and being recognized, at least officially, as people. Some are doing the jobs they'd been programmed for, happy to be recognized with at least a nominal wage (thinking too much about android minimum wage laws makes Hank's head hurt, to be honest, but he knows there's a long way to go on that front before their wages are even remotely fair). 

Others have struck out in entirely new directions, and an increasing number are choosing to eschew official work at all; there's a thriving barter economy in the small android communities that have sprung up across the city, where someone's been able to buy up an old apartment building or sprawling multi-bedroom house and turn it into a home for a dozen or more androids. One of Connor's friends lives in such a building, and the stories Hank hears secondhand about her life there remind him of stories a long-dead aunt used to tell him about living in a commune when she was young.

Hank has a hard time picturing what the meetings are like. He imagines a dimly-lit church basement, a circle of folding chairs, a group of androids holding hands. Silent and still, their hands bare and white and pressed together as they share this week's stories of how shitty humans have been to them lately. He feels creeped out by the thought, by the imagined silence, and is then immediately irritated at himself for it. 

Hank shakes his head as if to dislodge the thoughts piling up within it. Sumo snuffles at the base of an oak tree before carefully positioning himself to leave his own mark for the next dogs to sniff and piss on.

"Ready to head back, boy?" Hank murmurs, and leans down to ruffle the thick fur on Sumo's neck. Sumo bumps Hank's hand with his snout and allows himself to be turned around, so at least Hank's spared the indignity of fighting with a 170-pound dog who doesn't want to return home just yet. Once, Connor picked him up and carried him like a baby for three blocks when he didn't want to turn around; after that, Sumo had been less likely to make a fuss about returning home when Connor was there, lest he suffer the fate of being carried again.

Connor is able to charm just about anyone, it seems. 

Hank feels a little guilty for thinking it, as he walks home, but in a way it's nice to have these nights by himself, when Connor has other commitments. He's used to living by himself, of course, having his own thoughts for company at night and nothing more (unless he chose to drown out even those, on nights when they were too much), but it isn't that his life feels too crowded with Connor in it. It isn't that at all, he's glad to have him around, but.

The problem is, Hank thinks to himself, Connor just _fits_ into his life in a way he hadn't expected, a way he couldn't have imagined. When Hank had offered to let him stay, he hadn't given too much thought to it; he just knew that Connor had nowhere to go and he knew as well, with a surprising amount of clarity considering the booze-soaked haze he'd been operating in for several days on end, that he wanted him close. That something in him needed to be near Connor, to _know_ him.

Even though Hank would have said, only a week before, that there was nothing in an android that could be known by a human, nothing of substance. Nothing real.

But Hank couldn't think of anything more real, more substantial, than the feeling of Connor in his arms that first morning, and that feeling had led him to pull Connor along to his car, to  
bundle him in and take him home.

It hadn't been easy, adjusting to Connor's constant presence in his life, at home and at work, but even in the worst moments, when he drank too much (because he still did, of course, especially at Christmas when he couldn't leave his house without seeing reminders of happy families, small children clutching presents, and general holiday cheer no matter where he looked) or snapped at Connor because he was embarrassed about the state of his house or his drinking or lack of a social life, or when Connor had crying fits and two terrifying days where he didn't talk or move at all because he was having to process too many emotions and unspoken human rules and the confusion of disliking things for no reason: even then, through all of that shit, when it hadn't been easy it still felt right. It worked. 

Yes, Hank knows he keeps himself and his house cleaner now that Connor's there, to save what's left of his pride if nothing else, and it's good for him to have someone other than Sumo around at night, when his thoughts press in on him too closely. He hasn't played a game of Russian roulette since the night Connor jumped through his fucking window; he's been tempted a few times, pressing at the thought all day like a bruise, finding comfort in the pain it brings him. But he hasn't gone through with it. He doesn't--he doesn't want Connor to find him like that again.

(He thinks, occasionally, of Connor helping him into the shower when he isn't drunk and angry.)

Hank's mind slips off and around the idea whenever he tries to put into words how he feels about Connor, and Connor's place in his life. He can't quite hold onto it. 

Where he worries, though, what makes him treasure nights like this where he can be alone with his thoughts, even when they're still a thorny tangle he can't pick apart, is that life with Connor feels so natural, so comfortable, as they've settled into each other, that it makes him think, sometimes, that it's something else. Or that it could be.

Sometimes Connor just _looks_ at him, and Hank feels so much softness in his gaze, and the weight of all of Connor's attention on him, and it's like one of those weighted blankets he used to have; the pressure makes his restless mind still for a moment. Calm.

He doesn't know if Connor understands what it feels like, when he looks at Hank like that. Has no fucking clue what Connor thinks in those moments. There's no way he can just ask him, of course. He can't ask him any of it. 

Hank can't sit down with Connor and say "you're beautiful, not because of how you were made but because of who you've chosen to be, and even when I'm furious at the world and at you and at myself I feel better sharing my home and my life with you. Please stay." He can't say it but he can feel himself thinking it, louder and louder, all the time. And that's what fuels Hank's guilty sigh of relief the nights Connor's away; he doesn't want to pretend Connor doesn't live there, but sometimes he wants to pretend he isn't afraid he'll leave. 

Sumo's pace slows as they make their way back home. Hank knows that even in the cooler night, the heat is rough on him given his thick coat. "Not far now, buddy," he says, as they turn onto their street, and for a moment he thinks Sumo understood him, as his tail wags and he trots homeward with more purpose. But no, it's just the sight of Connor stepping out of a cab in front of their house. Hank sighs, laughs, and drops the leash so Sumo can lumber up to Connor without pulling Hank's arm out of its socket in his excitement.

Connor, of course, kneels on the sidewalk so he can fuss over Sumo, who barrels into him with enough excited force that Hank's surprised Connor isn't knocked over.

"What a good boy, I missed you too," Connor coos. He smiles at Hank as he catches up, and Hank imagines for a moment that it's meant for him. 

"He's ridiculous," Hank grumbles. "The old mutt sees you every day but still goes wild every time you come home."

"I take it as a compliment," Connor says, while rubbing Sumo's chest. "I'm happy to see him as well."

Hank turns abruptly, fumbling in his pocket for his keys.

Once he's inside, Hank refills Sumo's water dish first thing; he even puts an ice cube in it to help cool him off more. The moment he sets it down, Sumo's slurping it up in big, noisy gulps, and Hank wishes he'd brought a water bottle along on the walk. Next time.

"How'd your meeting go this week?" Hank asks, as he settles into he couch with a blissfully cold beer in his hand. He presses it to his cheek and the side of his throat for a moment before he even bothers to take a drink.

Hank knows there's plenty that gets discussed in these meetings that's none of his business, and probably not for human ears at all, and that's fine. He never wants to pry.

(He maybe wants to pry a little, but he knows better than to try. He doesn't want to be rude, he's just curious sometimes, is all.)

But he usually asks, when Connor returns home, how it went or what they talked about, and Connor shares what he's comfortable with. Sometimes it's just nice to see Connor's eyes light up when he talks, or hear his quiet laugh when he relays a funny story (android humor doesn't always make sense to Hank, but it's still nice to see Connor laugh), and he's genuinely interested in the little tidbits of conversation Connor shares with him. He thinks, too, that Connor enjoys these conversations as well.

Tonight, Connor seems a little on edge as he sits next to Hank. His gaze is fixed on Hank's beer, still dripping condensation down Hank's neck, and Hank awkwardly takes a swig. "Bad night? It's all right if you don't want to talk about it," he mumbles.

"No, it's not that," Connor says quickly. "It was interesting, but I'm still processing what we discussed. 

"How so?"

"Much of the meeting was spent discussing the newest enhancements that have become available. Antonia just underwent the procedure that allows her to ingest beverages, and she was eager to share her experience with us."

"Antonia, is she the one who's into, what was it, pottery?"

Connor nods, seemingly pleased that Hank remembered. "Yes, she's trying to set up a small ceramics studio to teach classes."

"Does she have a favorite drink so far? Can she even taste anything, or just drink it?"

Connor makes his "how do I explain this concept to a human?" face, which Hank finds equally frustrating and endearing. Maybe closer to 75% endearing.

"The procedure didn't give her a true sense of taste, but she's able to differentiate between different different aspects of taste in other ways. She reported that attributes like temperature or acidity bring to mind different colors or textures that can be pleasurable to experience. So far, her favorite beverage is lemon juice."

Hank imagines drinking a glass of pure lemon juice and winces. "So the drinking upgrade just gives you synesthesia?" 

Connor shrugs. "It isn't entirely accurate, but I think that's the best explanation I can give that will make sense to you." He pauses as if to collect his thoughts before continuing. "I've been considering undergoing an enhancement procedure." 

Hank nods encouragingly. "Well, yeah, if you want one, go for it." He waggles his bottle, now half-empty, at Connor. "Don't want to feel left out while I'm having one of these, huh? Maybe you'll let up on me a little when I want to pick up a six-pack on the way home." He means it as a joke, but winces when he hears the words out loud. Before he can apologize, though, Connor speaks again.

"It isn't that, although it might be nice to share a beer with you, Hank. There's a new package of genital components and sensory upgrades that allows models such as my own, which weren't created to have a sexual function, to experience sexual response and orgasm."

Hank's hand slips on his bottle of beer and he nearly drops it in his lap. He opens his mouth to respond, but all that comes out is a strangled, choking noise. Connor presses on. 

"A new member of our group recently had a penis installed and was generous enough to let the group inspect it up close if we were interested."

Hank pictures the same church basement he'd imagined earlier, except this time the circle of androids is taking turns touching someone's dick. Would it have been clinical? Did this guy just jerk off for a crowd? Or...

He squeezes his eyes shut, willing himself not to think about Connor tentatively reaching out to wrap his hand around another man's cock. His face is hot, and he's sure Connor's noticed.

"I, uh. I take it you're interested?"

Connor nods.

"And this guy just dropped trou in the middle of the meeting and whipped it out for you?"

"We don't have the same taboos around nudity that most humans seem to. While I understand this might sound strange to you, it was helpful to me." 

"Helpful," Hank repeats. He feels completely unprepared for this conversation.

"Yes, but." Connor frowns. "It feels like a complicated decision. I don't know." He looks at Hank with his soft puppy eyes. "What do you think I should do?" 

Hank gulps down the last third of his beer to give himself a moment to think. Thinking about Connor and sex is something he's desperately tried to _avoid_ doing for months now, but if Connor's comfortable enough to ask him for input, he doesn't want to just brush him off. 

"Well shit, Connor, I didn't know this was something you were thinking about. I think what matters more than anything is what you want, though." Hank takes a deep breath. "Is sex something you think you'd enjoy?"

Connor looks down at his hands, clasped tightly in his lap. "I think so. I'm curious about what sexual pleasure feels like. Based on my enjoyment of the limited nonsexual physical intimacy I've experienced, I suspect I'd enjoy sexual intimacy as well."

"Okay." Hank wishes he had another beer, maybe four more beers. "But?" He prompts. "What makes you unsure, here?"

"The thought of initiating and navigating a sexual relationship is stressful, for many reasons. Usually I can predict possible outcomes to my actions, but it's more difficult, in this case, to know what could happen." He sighs. "I also know many people find that sexual urges are distracting or lead to poor decision-making. I'm able to multitask, but still, I'd hate to make a decision that impacts my ability to focus on other things."

"I guess it's hard to know if you'd enjoy sexual feelings if you don't know what they feel like," Hank says. "You've had to get a handle on a lot of feelings already, these past few months."

"Hank." Connor fixes him with a steady, serious glare.

"Huh?"

"I am more than capable of experiencing sexual desire."

"Oh." The implications of this sink in and Hank feels his face heat up again. "Oh, so you--"

"I know what it feels like," Connor says quietly.

He's still not looking at Hank, but Hank nods anyway, and makes a small sound of acknowledgement. He isn't sure what to say.

"I'm aware that many people consider sex to be an important component of a romantic relationship, so I'd be a more desirable partner if I had genitals and the ability to orgasm."

"I think you have to make a decision on what feels right to you, Connor. Don't get a dick to please some person you haven't even met."

"Is that the component you'd recommend?"

"What?" Hank's starting to think he's hallucinating this entire conversation.

"I'm not limited to just a phallic component, or even one model if that's what I choose; all genital options would be compatible. There are a few different size and cosmetic options for a penis or a vulva, so if I decide to go through with a sexual enhancement I'd have further choices to make." Connor frowns a bit, and rests his hand on Hank's forearm where it's draped over the back of the couch. "I'm sorry if this topic is making you uncomfortable."

"I'm not uncomfortable," Hank starts to say, but his protest peters out at the look Connor shoots him. "Okay, maybe a little. I'm not used to talking about this. But that's on me, there's nothing wrong with you asking." He takes a deep breath. "I get that you wouldn't ask if you didn't trust me, and that means a lot. I want to help, but I don't want what I'd choose for myself, or what I like, to be what you go by when you make this decision. People have all sorts of different sexual tastes, you know? You can't try to make yourself someone's ideal partner whether you're planning what sort of junk to install or just saying what you think they want to hear."

Connor's hand is still resting lightly on his arm. _What the hell_ , Hank thinks, and he covers Connor's hand with his own, giving it a little squeeze. Connor looks at him in surprise but he smiles, and rubs his thumb once over the soft skin of Hank's wrist.

"Thank you," Connor says, and if it's for the touch or the advice, Hank isn't certain.

Connor seems content to leave the conversation there for now, which is a bit of a relief; Hank suddenly has a lot to think about (and perhaps even more to attempt to **not** think about), and there's only so much he can take in at once. It's late enough by this point that he's able to make his excuses and go to bed, although not before Connor asks him about his plans for the weekend. 

"The heat's going to break just a bit by Saturday," Connor says. "I was wondering if you'd like to go somewhere with me."

"Sure," Hank says, pleased to be asked. "Did you have anything in mind?"

"I've wanted to go to the farmers' market for a while. Does that interest you at all?"

"The farmers' market, huh?" Hank says. It's been years since he's been. "I wonder if that guy who sells pecan rolls still has a booth there."

Connor's LED flickers. "There's a Sutton's Bakery on the current vendor list, although reviews report the pecan rolls usually run out in the first hour."

"We'll just have to get there early, then," Hank says. "I haven't had one in probably five years and they're fucking fantastic."

"It's a--" Connor blinks. "It's agreed, then. Saturday morning."

"Sounds good," Hank says, "but now I really am gonna hit the hay."

Hank does go to bed, although sleep eludes him for a long time. It's a lot to take in, the knowledge that Connor can, and apparently _does_ , feel desire. It's exactly the sort of knowledge Hank's been hoping to avoid, because it's easier, in theory at least, to keep his thoughts on track if he can categorize Connor as entirely nonsexual. He's been trying so hard to keep from thinking of Connor this way; if he doesn't let himself want a relationship with him, he won't be as upset when it doesn't happen.

That's been the plan, anyway. It's worked all right, if imperfectly, so far.

But. 

Hank thinks about what Connor had said earlier. His enjoyment of nonsexual physical intimacy. Hank doesn't know what Connor gets up to at his meetings, educational dick-touching aside, and maybe it's a cuddly knitting circle, but he knows for sure, because Connor had told him, that the hug he gave Connor that first morning after the revolution, when he was just so _relieved_ and happy to see Connor that he couldn't help but pull him close, was the first time he'd ever been touched with kindness. He can't help but think of that moment, and of the other times he's put a hand on Connor's shoulder for comfort or clapped him on the back when they made a breakthrough in a case. Remembers Connor's arm around his waist one night when he was too shitfaced to make it to his bed on his own. 

Fuck, even tonight. He pictures Connor's hand where it had rested on his arm and imagines it sliding up to his bicep as Connor slips onto Hank's lap. Thinks about cradling the back of Connor's head in one hand as he grips his hip with the other, pulling him in as close as he can, close enough that Hank can grind up against Connor as he licks into his mouth and--

Fuck.

This is the exact situation Hank has been desperately been trying to keep himself from. It feels wrong to think about Connor like this, but he's honestly amazed he managed to avoid it for so long.

He'd been drifting before, close to sleep, but now he's wide awake.

"Fuck it," he grumbles to himself; the guilt can be Morning Hank's problem. He kicks off the covers and palms his cock, mostly hard already, through his boxers before shoving the waistband down. He imagines Connor touching him almost clinically, examining his cock like he's inspecting floor models before deciding on what he wants to install for himself. "I imagine it's sensitive," this Connor says, as Hank grips himself loosely. "I'd like a full demonstration, please."

And Christ, if Connor was really here, really watching, Hank would draw it out for him, let him see how hard he is, how much he wants him, but for now he just wants to come, wants to please this image of Connor he's conjured who's watching him all dark-eyed and hungry as he sweats and pants and jerks himself so roughly it's nearly painful. "Beautiful," he pictures Connor saying, even though he knows no one's ever used that word to describe him. "I want to see you, Hank. I want you."

He can't hold back any longer.

Hank holds his breath as he comes so he won't cry out, won't breathe Connor's name. He feels a wave of guilt rise up but he's too exhausted to care, in that moment; he knows he'll care in the morning, that he'll be ashamed of his lack of control, but for now he just hopes he can sleep. It's a restless, shallow sleep in the end, but at least he manages it at all. 

The guilt does indeed come for Hank in the morning. He blinks awake ten minutes before his alarm, rising up out of a dream that dissolves from his mind the moment he tries to remember it; what does come to mind, instead, is the conversation he had with Connor and what came afterward, once he'd gone to bed. "You can do this," he mutters to himself, mustering up the courage to leave his bedroom and face Connor. "You can live with him without being a horned-up creep, because he's your best goddamn friend and you know better than to fuck that up by thinking with your dick. Get your shit together." Angry pep-talk complete, he steels himself for the day ahead.

On the way to work, Hank decides he'll just detach himself a bit from the situation, and by the time the day's well underway he's sure he can stick to it. No mooning over Connor. No thinking about what sort of parts he may or may not want to install.

Definitely no thinking about what he looks like naked now, before any changes have been made. Is his groin a blank, featureless curve, like a doll's? Does it have any sensation as it is now? 

Hank makes a fist as he listens to a briefing in the mid-afternoon, letting his nails bite into his hand to keep his mind on task. What does he need to know about this new case? Who is he going to have to interview tomorrow? If he were to cup his hand at the joining of Connor's legs and rub just a little, would it feel good to him? Would Connor like it if Hank pressed against him with his thigh, or.

Or if he trailed kisses up Connor's inner thighs before tenderly licking and kissing that smooth expanse, would he say--

"Hank."

Shit.

Connor's standing in front of Hank, giving him a curious look as the other officers file out of the room. Hank tries to cover up the fact that he has no idea what Connor's just asked him, or what the last five minutes of the briefing covered, but it's clear Connor isn't buying it.

"You haven't been listening," he says.

Hank shakes his head and follows Connor back to his desk. "I haven't, I'm sorry," he says, as he sits. "I didn't mean to ignore you, or zone out at the end there, I just." He shrugs, not sure what to say that isn't "I was too busy being curious about your body." Surely that wouldn't go over well, especially not at work.

Connor perches on the edge of Hank's desk and nudges his knee with his ankle. "Are you all right? You've been distracted and withdrawn since this morning." He frowns a little. "Is it because of what we discussed last night? I didn't intend to upset you."

This is exactly the situation Hank wanted to avoid. "Hey, no, it's not that. You didn't upset me at all, okay? I'm glad you felt you could talk to me and that you're looking into new things. That's good. I just..." 

Hank takes a deep breath and finally makes eye contact with Connor, who's watching him intently. His eyes are soft, concerned. "It was so fucking hot, I didn't sleep great last night, and I'm letting it get to me today, sorry." A minor lie, but surely he can be forgiven for it. He's focused better on less sleep before, but if Connor finds it odd, he doesn't say anything. "I need to turn up the fan at night, see if I can get it cooler in the bedroom." Or take cold showers. That could help with more than one problem.

"I could take care of Sumo's walk tonight, if you'd like, since the heat doesn't impact me as much," Connor offers. "Plus it might allow you to get to bed earlier."

Hank considers it. He could let Connor take care of Sumo, have another bit of time to himself where he isn't so caught up in how fucking good it feels to spend time with Connor, and pretend he'll fall asleep at a reasonable hour. He could, and he's sorely tempted to.

The thing is, though, that trying to ignore his feelings for Connor clearly isn't working. Maybe he's going about this all wrong.

"Nah," he says. "I was going to ask if you'd come out with me on his walk tonight. It does me good to get out, just like with him. You can keep us old dogs company, if that's all right." He bumps his knee back into Connor's foot and is rewarded with a gentle smile. "For now let's..." he trails off. 

"Well, shit. For now, you should probably let me know what I missed in the last few minutes of that meeting."

Connor smiles at him and hops off the desk. "Sure thing, Hank," he says, and circles around to his own terminal.

Hank swears to himself he won't lose focus again. At least for the rest of the day. 

It's a good walk, that night. Like before, they wait until the sun's mostly down before heading out, and Hank remembers to grab a water bottle on their way out the door. They turn the other way at the first intersection, right instead of left, and wander their way through the relative quiet of the neighborhood.

Sumo picks up the scent of a rabbit or squirrel or something for half a block and tries to drag Connor along in his pursuit, but he quickly realizes it's not worth running in the heat and returns to his normal slow, snuffling pace before long. 

"You got the right idea, boy," Hank says, and gives him a few firm pats at the base of his tail. "Don't rush after anything on a night like this. Gotta take your time." He pours some water into one cupped hand for Sumo to lap up, then takes a few gulps himself, making sure to save plenty for the walk home.

After that, the three of them walk without speaking much, taking each turn based on where Sumo's nose leads him. Hank knows the neighborhood well enough to trust he won't get turned around.

While he does enjoy talking with Connor, Hank deeply appreciates the silences between them. Other than a few tense nights when they've been in shitty moods or at each other's throats, which hasn't happened for a couple months, silently sharing space with Connor feels comfortable in a way Hank isn't used to. He often gets moody if he's around someone and conversation dies out, like he's disappointing them by not having anything to say. Like he needs to apologize for not filling that space with something.

There are times when a silence between people feels like a void he has to yell into or it'll swallow up everything in the room. With Connor, it just feels intimate. A way to share space even if they don't have thoughts to share with each other.

Another way that having Connor around hurts sometimes, because it feels like something it's not, but still Hank knows it's precious. 

Most of the rest of the walk is spent in that sweet, close silence. The humidity is so oppressive it feels like a blanket, almost like it's dulling the other sounds of nighttime. Cicadas yell at each other in the trees. A group of teens curses and laughs while playing basketball in a driveway. They all seem very far away.

When they decide to turn around, Hank gives Sumo another few slurps of water, drinks some himself, then shrugs and upends the bottle over his head, letting the last few splashes cascade down his face and neck. "Sorry," he mumbles, seeing that a few drops have gotten on Connor's sleeve. Hank plucks at his own shirt where the water and his sweat have plastered it to his chest. "Feels good, though."

"Don't apologize," Connor says, and while he sounds tense, and Hank sees a flash of yellow from his temple, he has a smile on his face when Hank turns to look. They slip back into silence again.

"Thanks for this," Hank says, once they're only a few more blocks from home. At Connor's confused look, he gestures at the humid night around them. "It's good to have you out here with me. I'm sure Sumo appreciates it too, considering how much he adores you."

Sumo looks up at the sound of his name and noses at Hank's pocket, then at Connor's, hoping for a treat. "Big baby," Connor says to him, "you have to wait. Good boys get treats at home." Sumo just wags his huge feather-duster of a tail and gives up after another hopeful sniff.

"I like spending time with you," Connor says quietly, after another silent minute.

"I know it isn't as exciting as all the other things you have going on most nights," Hank replies. He's finally feeling like he has a life again, but it's still mostly the life of a homebody; Connor's so new and full of life that he wants him to be able to experience more than Hank can offer. But selfishly, these small moments feel much larger to Hank, and he's grateful for them.

Connor steps forward to unlock the door, and drops the leash the moment it opens, allowing Sumo to bound past him towards the kitchen. But he stands in the doorway and turns to face Hank, stopping so suddenly Hank freezes on the second step just before he knocks into him. He's backlit by the lights from inside, but Hank can see the streetlights reflected in his eyes.

"I don't think about you like that," he says, still quiet. "You aren't less exciting." He reaches out and Connor cups Hank's cheek in his hand, thumb brushing against the soft edge of his beard. Hank is pinned under the soft weight of Connor's gaze, afraid if he moves or breathes the moment will be lost. Still, he can't help but lean ever so slightly into the curve of Connor's hand. 

He can't help but be drawn to him.

"I mean it," Connor murmurs. His thumb strokes Hank's cheek and his fingers curl under to tangle in his beard. "I'm exactly where I want to be."

Hank feels a suggestion in the pressure of Connor's hand and allows his head to be tilted up slightly. For a thrilling, terrifying moment he thinks Connor's going to lean down and kiss him. Connor just smiles, though, and trails his fingers down Hank's neck as he pulls his hand away. "Let's get you inside and cooled off," he says.

Hank has absolutely no idea how he's supposed to cool down after whatever the hell _that_ was. The a/c's blasting inside the house, and the chill that prickles over his chest where the shirt's wet and sticking to him is welcome, but it isn't enough to combat the heat he can still feel in his cheeks, like Connor's touch had been enough to burn him.

"Gonna take a shower," he calls out to Connor, who's fussing over Sumo while he eats his promised treat.

"Good boy," Connor says, and Hank briefly thinks it's meant for him before he sees Sumo lick his face in response.

He shouldn't be jealous. 

Once he's in the safety of the bathroom, Hank slumps against the closed door. "What the hell was that?" he says out loud, quiet enough that Connor can't hear (fuck, hopefully quiet enough for that) but loud enough that the unanswerable question hangs uncomfortably in the air. 

Hank feels like he's falling in slow motion into a trap of his own making. The carefully built, painstakingly maintained partition he's spent the last eight months building around his feelings for Connor has been pulled down and he has no idea what to do with himself. Out on the front steps...he'd thought Connor might kiss him. He'd almost moved forward to meet him halfway. What if he had? What if he'd misread the situation so badly that he saddled Connor with an unwanted kiss out of nowhere? He had to have been misreading it. Nothing else makes sense. 

He angrily pulls his wet, sweaty clothes off and turns the shower on, not even waiting for the water to warm up at all before he steps into the tub. He can't let himself read more into Connor's interactions with him than what's really there. Connor likes spending time with him. Hank knows that. It confuses him, sometimes, but he knows Connor enjoys his company. 

He's familiar.

He hopes he's more than that, desperately wants to be.

But Connor has also said he likes physical contact, and Hank knows that while he was programmed with certain parameters concerning touch and closeness, in order to inspire connection with humans without being too forward, it's become clear, as he's developed his own tastes, that he's comfortable with a wide range of casual contact.

Maybe gentle face-touching is just a pat on the back, to him. He knows he can't map his own feelings onto what Connor does and come up with an answer.

Standing under the stream of the shower, no longer ice-cold but still cool enough to make him shiver, Hank presses his hand to his cheek as if he can still feel the ghost of Connor's touch. 

As he's toweling off, Hank isn't any closer to understanding what the fuck is going on with Connor. It's late and he wasn't entirely lying, earlier, about how tired he was, but going to bed now feels like running. Still, he doesn't have the energy for much else.

An exhausted, petulant part of Hank wants to just avoid the question altogether; if he stays in the bathroom, he doesn't have to face Connor _or_ take the cowardly route directly to bed. He can sleep on the bathmat in a nest of old towels.

He sighs. Not only would it be damp and uncomfortable, he's sure Connor would be banging down the door within a couple hours, trying to figure out what Hank was doing in there. And the thing is, Hank doesn't want to avoid Connor. He just doesn't think he can bring himself to ask what the hell is going on. Not tonight. 

Hank finds himself almost sneaking across the hall to his bedroom; somehow his new awareness of Connor's interest in sex makes the thought of Connor seeing him with only a towel around his waist feel awkward in a way it didn't before. Hank isn't in the habit of parading around nude or anything, but he hadn't worried too much about the occasional moment when Connor might see him without a shirt, either. Even with his renewed sense of modesty, Hank can't bring himself to throw on anything heavier than an undershirt and an old, stretched-out pair of boxers before he wanders back to the living room. It's fairly cool in the house, but he still feels like he'll sweat right through anything more substantial.

Connor's on the couch when he walks in, sorting through a half-dozen skeins of yarn in different colors. He flashes a smile as Hank sits on the other end of the couch and cracks open a seltzer. Whether he's smiling at Hank's general presence or his decision not to have another beer for the night, he isn't sure, but it's still a chance to admire how pretty his face is when it lights up like that. 

"I thought you might be off to bed, since it's nearly midnight," Connor says, but there's no reproach in his voice, no suggestion that he wants to send Hank away for his own good. "You've been tired today, and we have an early morning tomorrow." He pauses and smiles again, this time a little softer. Shyer. "And the next day, too, if you still want to get to the market early enough for those pecan rolls."

"I absolutely do," Hank replies, pleased that Connor remembered. He knows it's easy for him to remember small details like that, but it still feelsgood to know Connor's listening, that he cares enough to save the data somewhere or however he manages memory. "And I'll go off to bed soon, I just..." he trails off. _"I don't understand why you touched me like that, and I wish I'd kissed you except I didn't know if you wanted me to"_ isn't exactly something he can say right now. If Connor could read minds, Hank's sure the words would be blaring across the room as if he was shouting through a megaphone, but instead they're just rattling around inside him. He shrugs. "I just wanted to come sit with you a while first, if that's all right."

"Of course it is, Hank," Connor says, seeming pleased.

"What are you working on?"

"A few of us in my knitting group are all going to make the same sweater. I'm trying to decide what color will work best, so I can get started tonight and have the first few rows done by Sunday." Connor picks up a dark green tweed skein and squishes it thoughtfully. "What do you think about this?"

"Kinda hard to think about sweaters in this godawful heat, I'll be honest," Hank says, "but that's a nice color, sure. Uh, what kind of sweater is it?"

"I don't have a physical copy of the pattern, but--" Connor holds his hand out, and projected on the little screen thingy Hank always forgets he has is a picture of a man in a cozy-looking cabled cardigan with a thick shawl collar.

Hank feels like he's going to start sweating just looking at it, but it does seem like it would be nice to wear in the winter. "Yeah, that color seems good. Kinda piney, I guess."

Connor nods.

"You realize I know absolutely nothing about knitting or fashion or whatever, right? My opinion's not worth much." 

Connor rolls his eyes. "You can still tell me if you like a color or not."

"Well then yes, smartass, I like it."

Hank had moved closer to Connor in order to peer at the projected sweater, but once Connor puts the picture away he doesn't bother to move away again. He grips his drink in both hands so he won't be tempted to drape an arm over Connor's shoulder.

Maybe he'd like it, though?

He gulps the rest of his seltzer; that thought seems like his cue to fuck off to bed so he doesn't do anything impulsive. He's been known to do shit he wouldn't otherwise be brave enough to do, when it gets late enough and he's feeling tired and punchy.

"All right, boss," Hank says, slapping his thighs as he stands up. "I probably should head to bed so I can be less of a mess tomorrow."

He can't help himself.

As he walks behind the couch to throw the can away in the kitchen, he gives Connor's shoulder a soft little squeeze and ruffles his hair as well. "Good luck with your sweater." For a moment Hank thinks Sumo's chewing a squeaky toy off in a corner somewhere but nope, that's just a squeak of surprise coming from Connor. 

"Thanks," he says, a moment later. "Sleep well."

Hank really fucking hopes that was a good squeak, as much as a squeak can be positive, and not an "oh no why did he touch my hair" squeak.

By the time he settles in bed, he really is tired enough that there's no energy left for mulling over what's happened with Connor for the past couple days. Hank's never been so relieved to be this exhausted; he often takes an hour to fall asleep, but tonight he's out in less than ten minutes.


	2. Chapter 2

Somehow, Hank must have slept through his alarm; the light pouring in the kitchen windows tells him it's late morning, close to noon. Connor's sitting at the kitchen table, dressed in a thin, gauzy robe Hank's never seen before. He isn't sure if Connor realized how sheer it was when he put it on; it's clear, even from several feet away, that he doesn't have anything on under it. The robe isn't tied shut, and Hank can see a scattering of freckles across Connor's shoulder where it's slipped down. He isn't sure he should be seeing this, but he's transfixed by the sight, and Connor nods and beckons him closer.

"You said you'd help me," he says.

Hank doesn't know what he means, but he wants to help Connor if he can, so he sits on the floor next to him and waits.

Connor picks up a plum from the bowl on the table in front of him and digs his nails in, pulling it in half to remove the pit. Juice streams down his fingers and drips from his wrist to the table. He stares directly into Hank's eyes as he presses his first two fingers to Hank's mouth, and it's the most natural thing in the world for him to suck them in and lick them clean. The juice floods his mouth, sweet and sharp, and he can't help but moan at the taste, and at the feel of Connor's fingers pressing against his tongue.

Connor bites into the plum, and a stream of juice slips down his neck and along his collarbone. He bites again, and pulls his fingers from Hank's mouth, only to use them to spread the flowing juice across his chest and down his torso. Beads of it glitter like jewels in the shafts of sunlight streaming in from the window.

On his knees, Hank's still tall enough to lick lines of juice off of Connor's chest. He follows Connor's fingers to his neck, to a nipple, down to his navel, and licks him clean wherever he can. Connor sighs and shifts beneath him, and Hank can't help but moan as if he's the one being kissed all over. 

He spreads his hands over Connor's thighs where the robe's been rucked up high enough to leave them bare. The fabric's pooled between his legs; what's between them is still a mystery. He wants to dive in and explore, but Connor's fingers haven't led him there yet. No instructions have been given, but Hank knows those are the rules of this game, so he smooths his hands over Connor's thighs and licks along his collarbone and tries to ignore how hard he is.

Once Connor's mostly clean, with only a thin sheen of stickiness remaining, he slips his hand into Hank's hair and tightens it, tugging firmly and pulling Hank's head back until he's looking into Connor's eyes again. He isn't sure he could look away even if he was able to move his head; Connor's eyes are soft and deep and Hank wants to sink into them and lose himself entirely.

He feels a hand on his cock, rubbing gently through his underwear, and he knows it's Connor touching him, even though one hand is in his hair and the other has joined Hank's hand on his own thigh. It has to be him. He whines and bucks his hips forward, chasing more friction, and the hand moves away until he stills himself. It starts moving again, and Hank knows he has to keep still or Connor will stop.

"Are you mine?" Connor asks. He's been so quiet, this entire time.

"What?"

Connor's grip tightens, both in Hank's hair and on his cock. "Are you mine, Hank?"

"Yes," he rasps. 

"Tell me," Connor says. The hand in Hank's hair scratches delicately against his scalp before tightening again.

"I'm yours," Hank pants. "I'm yours." He's so aroused he's struggling to remain still, to keep from rutting against Connor's hand.

"Of course you are."

Hank nods. 

"You're mine," Connor says, and he strokes Hank faster, slipping beneath his waistband to grip him directly. "Mine."

"Mine."

"Mine."

And then his voice shifts and warps; the repeating sound resolves not as Connor's voice, dark and possessive and hungry, but as his goddamn alarm. 

Hank nearly knocks his phone off the side table in his haste to turn the blaring alarm off. "Jesus Christ," he groans, flopping back against his pillow. "What the fuck was that?" Details of the dream are slipping out of his grasp as he tries to remember them, blurring and fading as most of his dreams do shortly after he wakes. He remembers Connor's hand in his hair, and the taste of something sweet.

"I'm yours," he says to himself, quietly.

The sheets are tangled around his legs, and as he shifts against them, trying to pull himself free, the fabric pulls tight across his cock, still hard and aching from the dream he no longer remembers. He has time, if he's quick--and with how worked up he is, he's pretty sure he will be--to take care of himself and still get to work on time. Connor won't check up on him until at least a half-hour after his alarm goes off, if he hasn't come out of his room by then, and it won't come to that.

Hank doesn't bother to assemble much of a fantasy; he just wraps his thoughts around the threads of the dream he can remember, the feeling of kneeling in front of Connor in a sunny room and the few words they exchanged, and sure enough, he's so turned on that it's only the work of a few minutes before he's biting his lip to keep from crying out as he comes. He feels a little better, but also a bit ridiculous, he realizes, as he washes his hands. 

It's been years since he's woken up that hard and needed to jerk off so badly the moment he woke up. Alcohol, grief, and depression had done a number on his dick and on his sex drive, for a good while. Lately, though, with all of these factors....not _cured_ , surely not, but slowly getting better, plus his feelings for Connor that he's increasingly unable to ignore, his body's remembering what desire feels like.

"Me and Connor both, apparently," Hank mutters to himself, as he leaves the bathroom in search of coffee.

If Connor hears him, he doesn't reply. 

Thankfully, Hank finds himself better able to keep his focus at work today, which is a relief after the disaster of the day before. For this new case, he and Connor have been given an intimidating pile of evidence and witness statements to comb through, looking for connections; it's tedious work, in a way, but Hank finds himself drawn to this kind of pattern-matching, especially when his mind's preoccupied with something else. Sorting so closely through piles of data helps Hank drown out anything else that's taking up space in his brain, so he finds himself well into the afternoon before he even thinks to look at what time it is, or think about taking a break.

Hank catches Connor's eye as he stands from his desk and stretches. "I'm gonna run across the street and grab a sandwich, I think," he says.

"Should I come with you?" 

"Nah," Hank replies, although he likes that Connor asked. There's no reason for him to accompany Hank other than to share his company or trade theories about a case, and it feels a bit early to have solid theories yet. "I'll bring it back and keep working, so we aren't here too late; I'll just be out for a few minutes."

"Okay, Hank," Connor says, and turns back to his terminal with a sweet smile.

Hank has an overwhelming urge to kiss him, which would obviously be a terrible idea for a few reasons, but he allows himself the indulgence of patting his shoulder as he walks past. He doesn't hear a squeak, this time.

It's still hot and disgustingly humid outside; when Hank steps outside of the climate-controlled DPD building, he feels like someone's hit him in the face with a wet sock. It's cloudy, at least, so the sun isn't making things worse, but it's a pretty miserable day.

Hank hears the first rumble of thunder when he's ordering his sandwich, and by the time it's ready, he sees speckles spread over the sidewalk outside as the first fat raindrops fall. "Shit," he mutters to himself. He doesn't have an umbrella. 

At least he doesn't have far to go, and he doesn't really mind getting wet that much. Plus, it's not raining too hard. He shrugs and steps outside into the oddly warm summer rain.

There's a flash and more thunder, louder this time, when Hank's at the corner waiting for the light to change, and by the time he's at the front door of the DPD the light summer rain has turned into a true thunderstorm. He stares outside from the safety of the lobby, noticing how much darker it is than it was even ten minutes ago. Hank's always loved thunderstorms, and he wonders if it'll still be storming later in the evening, when he's back home. Maybe he can curl up with a beer and a good book on the couch and listen to the rain. As he walks back to his desk, he imagines Connor curled up with him too. He tries to imagine Sumo there as well, but his couch is only so big, after all. He can sleep right in front.

Hank's distracted enough by his embarrassingly domestic fantasies that he nearly collides with Gavin Reed as he rounds the corner into the bullpen.

"Jesus, Anderson, you look like a drowned rat," he sneers. "What happened to you?"

Hank just raises an eyebrow and cocks his head towards the window. "It's raining outside, champ," he says. "You figure it out."

Reed rolls his eyes. "Why not send your plastic pal out to get lunch for you? I'm sure he doesn't care if he gets wet."

"He's my partner, not my butler, and you know that." He turns away to head back to his desk. "Don't you have an investigation to fuck up? Better get to it."

"Fuck you, old man," Reed spits.

"You couldn't handle me," Hank says mildly, and walks away before Reed can formulate a response. 

Hank's used to ignoring most of what comes out of Reed's mouth, so it isn't until Connor blinks and freezes for a moment, as he looks up at Hank's approach, that he considers that maybe he _does_ look like a drowned rat. He isn't completely soaked, but his shirt is wet enough that he can feel it clinging to his chest, and water's dripping from the wet ends of his hair onto the floor. He probably looks pretty pathetic, actually.

"You okay, Connor?" he asks, when he continues to stare, LED doing a slow blink in bright yellow. "Everything all right?" He tries to follow the line of Connor's stare. "Is there something on my shirt, other than, you know, a bunch of water?"

Connor blinks and brings his focus up to Hank's face. "Everything's fine, sorry. You just caught my attention drifting for a moment." He frowns slightly. "Do you have a change of clothes? Your shirt looks like it's." He pauses. "It's very wet."

"Nah, but I'll be fine." Hank prods at his chest; his shirt really is soaked through. He thinks about the back of his chair pressing his cold, damp shirt into his back and says, "Maybe I'll try to at least wring this out in the sink or something." He drops his sandwich, happily protected by its wrapper and still dry, onto his desk. "Back in a sec, okay?"

"Do you need help?" Connor asks, his voice tight.

"All I'm doing is taking my shirt off and sticking it under an ancient hand dryer, Connor, I think I have that under control. Maybe warn the guys so no one has to be subjected to the sight of me in an undershirt, huh? Might be bad for morale."

"I think you're underestimating your appeal, Lieutenant," Connor says, almost as if he's offended. 

Hank snorts. "Oh, I'm sure. Maybe I'll enter the department-wide wet t-shirt contest and see how well my 'appeal' goes over."

Connor's LED flashes red for a moment.

"Jesus, it's a joke, don't worry. I won't subject anyone to this." Hank laughs as he heads to the bathroom, but for a moment he does wish he had more to show off. In his idle fantasies about Connor--which he really has to cut down on--his own body doesn't really come into play that much. It's easier to focus on the idea of sensation, or on Connor, who he's sure could win a wet t-shirt contest with no trouble. He knows Connor means well, with comments like that, but in the end it just makes him feel a wider gulf between where he is and where Connor thinks (or wants to suggest he thinks, to be polite or encouraging) he is.

Hank tries to push all that out of his mind as he enters the bathroom, which is thankfully empty. He strips off his wet shirt, leaving him in only a thin undershirt, and wrings as much water as he can out in the sink. He squeezes some out of his hair, too, although there's only so much he can do with it without a towel. 

The high-power dryer can't quite dry his shirt out entirely, but it upgrades it from "dripping" to "slightly damp," which Hank counts as a win. He briefly considers drying his undershirt as well, but he's wasted enough time already, so he goes into a stall, strips off his undershirt, and puts on his shirt without it, bundling up the damp undershirt to take home and deal with later. He's wasted enough time already, and he still needs to eat his lunch and return to the thrilling work of combing through databases for a few more hours.

Connor stares at Hank for a moment when he returns to his desk, but he quickly figures out it's because he forgot to button an extra button to make up for the missing undershirt, and it was probably weird to see that extra bit of his chest. _Don't want to show too much cleavage at work_ , Hank thinks bitterly.

The rest of the workday passes without any fuss, thankfully. His sandwich is delicious, and by the end of the day he thinks he's starting to make some connections between cases that were previously thought to be unrelated, and which might make them more able to track their perpetrator's next moves if they can extrapolate from there. It isn't a puzzle solved quite yet, but it's another step. A solid one. They're waiting on more information that won't be available until Monday at the earliest, so Hank doesn't feel bad about leaving more or less on time at the end of the day.

"Friday's when your book club meets, right?" Hank asks Connor, as he's starting to wind things down for the day. "D'you want me to drive you somewhere on my way home?" Connor's happy to take cabs if he's going somewhere on his own, but Hank still likes to offer a ride when his schedule allows it. And Hank's schedule, being what it is, rarely has a conflict.

"Usually, yes," Connor replies, "but several members had scheduling conflicts tonight, so we decided to cancel." He smiles. "My schedule's wide open."

"Great," says Hank. He's glad Connor has so many interests, that he's meeting new people and learning about what he likes, and he absolutely doesn't begrudge him that time. He knows it would be shitty of him to resent Connor for actually having a life, or for thinking he has any sort of claim on him or his time. It's not like Connor doesn't already spend plenty of time with Hank, after all.

But still, there's a spark of warmth Hank feels when Connor says he's free for the night. Spending time with him might feel complicated, especially lately, but he still cherishes it. He thinks back to the idle daydream he had earlier, while watching the rain: curling up with Connor on the couch, sharing space while the thunder rolls overhead. He sighs quietly. It won't be quite like that tonight, but he looks forward to it anyway. 

Hank's relieved to be able to change into dry clothing once he's home. His overshirt never dried entirely, and as he takes it off he feels goosebumps prickle up his arms as the air conditioning hits his skin. It's a bit of a novelty to feel cold at the height of summer. 

They settle into what's become a familiar routine, that night. Connor lets Sumo out in the yard to do his business, and then sits at the table, chatting with Hank as he roots around in the fridge to find something he can make for dinner. Hank tries to keep work talk to a minimum at home, but some nights they'll compare notes and bounce ideas off of each other for a few minutes before he waves his hand and declares them officially off the clock.

Tonight, Hank declares the house a work-free zone the moment he starts cracking eggs for an omelette. It had been a couple years since Hank had regularly cooked for himself, but he's a decent cook when he puts the effort in; in the last few months he's been getting back in the habit. Turns out he does feel better when he isn't living off of takeout all the time. It hadn't felt worth the effort, for a long time, to put any energy into taking care of himself any better.

As he pours the beaten eggs into a pan, Hank wishes, not for the first time, that he could cook for Connor. He's glad he'd started cooking again, sure, but it feels so much better to cook for someone other than just himself. It's been a long time since he's had the chance, and he misses it. He knows, for a sharp moment, that this train of thought is dangerous to follow too far; some of his best memories of cooking for others are too painful to look at head-on. 

Still, Hank thinks, as he eyes his spinach and pepper omelette to see if it's fully set, it would feel good to make a second one of these for Connor, wouldn't it? To watch him close his eyes happily when he has a taste of something particularly delicious? Maybe he'd make a small, happy sound when he discovered a new taste, a little sigh or moan of pleasure...

Hank realizes this is veering dangerously towards "imagining Connor during sex" territory, and tries to course-correct. "Do you ever wish you could eat stuff?" he asks. "Feels weird to eat right in front of you sometimes, like I'm being rude."

"It doesn't feel rude to me," Connor says.

"I get it, but my ma really drilled it into me that it's rude to eat in front of someone without offering them anything. Sometimes when you watch me eat I can hear her in the back of my mind telling me off for not feeding you too, even though I know I can't."

Connor looks thoughtful. "I've considered it, but while I find the idea of eating and drinking interesting, I think I'm more interested in the ways people bond over shared experiences with food and tradition. I like watching you cook, and hearing about what you enjoy; I know that isn't the same, but I get enjoyment out of it, and I can experience some of the intimacy involved in sharing food without experiencing that food myself." His LED flashes yellow, briefly. "Taste is the sense that seems to be the hardest to translate into comprehensible data for us, so the quality of the available upgrades is behind what's offered by other options." Hank feels his face flush at the thought of the other options; it's clear which ones Connor's talking about.

He busies himself eating his omelette, buying time to get his thoughts in order. It feels like Connor wants to talk more about his potential upgrades; he made that clear when he brought it up earlier, and only dropped the conversation when he noticed Hank was uncomfortable with it. He isn't sure if it's a good idea to discuss the "other options" with Connor or not; he's a little more invested in the topic than he should be. He doesn't know if Connor would want to talk about this if he knew how Hank feels. Would he be uncomfortable if he found out later? 

_Okay_ , Hank tells himself. _You're his friend. He feels safe coming to you with this. Don't be a fucking creep about it. Just...just talk. Like a normal person_.

He clears his throat. "About the procedure you mentioned, y'know, earlier this week."

"The genital attachment and sexual enhancements, yes," Connor replies brightly. He loves providing detail when he knows Hank's feeling awkward about something.

"You still making up your mind about it?" Hank carries his plate to the sink, places it in the pan that's already soaking, and grabs a beer from the fridge before heading into the living room, waving Connor in after him. He settles into his customary corner of the couch and Connor, after a moment of hesitation, sits in the middle, turned towards him. Their knees are almost touching.

"I think I'm coming closer to a decision," Connor says. "I think it's something I want to do."

"Okay, that's good," Hank says, and stumbles to correct himself. "I mean. I think it's good either way, just. What I mean is, it's good that you're feeling more certain about it." He's glad to have a drink to distract himself with. A downside of androids not being able to eat or drink, Hank figures, is that they can't shove something in their mouths if they need a second to gather their thoughts.

He asks a question that's been at the back of his mind all week. "How safe is this whole business, anyway?" 

"It's safer than a surgical procedure for humans, certainly, although there is some risk inherent in the process. This is all new technology, after all. After some consideration, and conversations with Lukas, I've determined that it's an acceptable level of physical risk." 

"Lukas, is that the guy from your group who gave everyone the, uh, hands-on demonstration?" Hank still doesn't know quite what to think about that.

Connor smiles. "Yes, I've been messaging him this week with questions as they come up. Of course I understand his experience won't necessarily be the same as mine, should I choose the same enhancements he did, and to be quite honest I don't think I have the same sexual preferences he does, but it's been helpful to know someone who's gone through this process already."

Hank's burning with curiosity at the thought of Connor's sexual preferences, but he doesn't ask. That feels like a guaranteed way to make things weird, and it isn't his business at all, as much as he might want it to be.

"The difficulty," Connor continues, "is that most of my apprehension isn't related to the potential physical risks. Those seem easy to prepare for."

Connor's fingers fidget restlessly on his leg, a gesture Hank recognizes; he hands over the bottlecap from his beer and receives a grateful smile as Connor rolls it across his knuckles.

"I wonder, though," he says, "how prepared I am for the possibility of sexual rejection."

Hank feels a brief, irrational rush of anger aimed at the hypothetical person who would turn Connor down. "No way is someone going to reject you," he says. "I guess not everyone's compatible with people they're attracted to, but someone would have to be crazy to turn you down outright. I mean, I'd ask if you'd looked in a mirror lately, but I know you have." He reaches out and gently tugs the unruly lock of hair Connor's always smoothing back when he examines his reflection. "You--you're a catch." 

"Not everyone is attracted to men," Connor points out. "Human concepts of gender seem far removed from how most androids relate to it, if we relate to it at all, but for romantic and sexual purposes I'm happy to be seen that way by potential partners." He shrugs; while Hank's still trying to process that sentence, he continues, "plenty of humans wouldn't want to date an android in the first place."

"If that's the case, maybe you'd be better off without them."

"It would still be a rejection, Hank. It would still hurt." Connor looks startlingly close to tears, now. 

"Sure," Hank says hesitantly. "But--"

"Pretending no one could want to reject me isn't a kindness," Connor says, heatedly. His LED blinks rapidly between yellow and red, but Hank doesn't need to see it to know he's getting upset. "Don't tell me that. I know it isn't true." 

Hank wonders, with a queasy jolt to his gut, if it's happened already. Is there someone Connor wants to be with, someone he's approached, who said no? Is Hank pressing at a hidden wound because he doesn't know about it? Because Connor didn't want to tell him? 

He doesn't know what's going on but has a strong suspicion he's fucking something up.

Again.

Connor has the bottlecap clenched in his fist now, and his posture's so tight Hank's worried he'll squeeze it hard enough to cut himself.

"Aw shit," Hank says. "I'm making a mess of this, huh?" He covers Connor's tense fist with his hand and squeezes gently, rubbing his thumb over his knuckles to try and loosen his grip. 

"Hey," he says quietly. "Do you need a hug?" He tugs gently against Connor's hand.

And it's selfish, he knows, because of course all he wants to do when he sees Connor upset--especially when he knows he had a hand in it--is hold him. (Of course it's all he wants to do the rest of the time, too.) But he thinks it might be what Connor needs right now, as well.

Connor hesitates, just long enough that Hank lets go, not wanting to pull him into something he doesn't want, but after another moment Connor nods and leans into him.

Hank wraps an arm around his shoulder, coaxing him a bit closer, and when Connor starts to curl against him he pats his chest, shifting a bit so he's leaning back against the corner of the couch.

"C'mere." 

They've hugged since that first time, of course they have. Small moments of comfort, warm and soothing but not quite with the force or relief of that first hug they shared out in the cold. Now, though, Connor just melts against Hank's chest, face pressed into his shoulder, and there's something in the way he's holding onto Hank, perched halfway in his lap to get as close as he can, that makes the moment feel nearly as important as that one, somehow. Hank can't help but wrap his arms around him and nestle him in closer.

It's so tempting to nuzzle into Connor's hair and kiss his forehead, but he settles for smoothing a hand down his back in slow, even strokes, while he tries to slow his breathing down. He has no idea if that's calming for Connor, since he doesn't have to breathe in the first place, but it's calming for Hank, and he could certainly use it.

"I forget sometimes," Hank says, after a quiet minute, "how new so many things still are, to you. I feel like such a fucking mess, a lot of the time, and it's easy to think you have your shit together so much better than I do."

Connor lifts his head to look at Hank, but doesn't say anything; thankfully, he's learned that it can take Hank a while to put his thoughts into words. He's out of practice when it comes to talking about how he's feeling. About much of anything, really.

"But that isn't fair to you," he says.

"It's not," Connor replies, his voice muffled slightly against Hank's shoulder.

"I know, and I'm sorry," Hank says. "It's been a long time since I first tried to think about what I wanted from sex and relationships and stuff, and it's easy to forget how fucked up that whole process makes you feel when you get started. I mean for me you had teenage bullshit wrapped up in it too. Not sure if that's worse or not."

"People expect teenagers to be full of bullshit, though, right?"

"Oh yeah. It's required, I think."

"Hank."

"Hmm?"

"I'm absolutely full of bullshit and it's terrible."

Hank chuckles at this and squeezes Connor just a little closer. "God, I know the feeling."

Connor fixes him with a sharp look. "But you don't, Hank. I appreciate your sympathy, I do. But your experience isn't and can't be equivalent to mine."

"You can't say you're full of shit and it sucks and not expect me to agree with you," Hank grumbles.

"I'll allow it," Connor says with a sigh, but Hank thinks he hears the hint of a smile in his voice.

"Here's my point, and then I'll shut up," Hank says. Connor relaxes a bit and tilts his head up towards him, and Hank has to focus on what he means to say and not on how easy it would be to kiss him.

"I think anyone would be lucky to have a guy like you interested in them. For sex, or a relationship, or whatever. Whether or not you get any fancy new parts put in. I guess I'm biased because I'm." 

He scrambles for an end to that sentence that isn't "in love with you." 

"You know, I'm with you all the time. So I've had a lot of chances to see how charming you are. I just don't want you to sell yourself short, is all." He pats Connor's back a couple times, like he does when he tells Sumo what a good boy he is. A few gentle thumps to give his hand something to do that isn't twining itself into the hair at the back of Connor's neck, where he wonders if he's sensitive. "I know I didn't do it right, but that's all I meant by it."

"Thank you," Connor mumbles into his chest, where he seems to have decided to settle. 

He seems content to stay where he is, making no move to get up or shift away, and Hank settles his arm back across his shoulders, letting his other hand drift to Connor's lower back. Connor hums contentedly when he tentatively rubs it in small, slow circles, so he lets himself enjoy the feeling of the curve of his back under his hand.

He thinks maybe he should get up, or make some excuse to draw away, but he doesn't want to, and he doesn't think Connor wants him to either. It feels like they could both use the comfort, so he stays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check out the amazing plum dream art that [Ani](https://twitter.com/_kiriani) made, which you can see [here](https://twitter.com/_kiriani/status/1210299893601984513). (Also thanks to [Bri](https://twitter.com/BriWeiCreative) who requested it!!)
> 
> Also: I wrote a small (seven-tweet-long) bonus scene of Connor's reaction to Hank's rain-drenched look; it doesn't fit into the flow of that scene, sadly, but you can read it on [twitter](https://twitter.com/robofingering/status/1182704227124015106)!


	3. Chapter 3

Hank wakes up slowly, confused by the presence of something heavy and warm on his chest. The crick in his neck tells him he must have fallen asleep on the couch again, but the warm presence pressed against him is more of a mystery, in his half-awake state.

He feels a smooth expanse of skin under his fingers when he flexes his hand, and the motion teases out a small, gentle sigh from Connor.

Oh.

Connor.

Who's cuddled up against him on the couch. Hank's eyes snap open as the previous night comes into sharp focus in his memory. 

Connor's watching him, eyes soft and smiling.

"Good morning, Hank," Connor murmurs.

"Hey," he replies, and because this feels slightly unreal, and because Connor had chosen to stay there after all, he dares to brush a loose curl back from Connor's face. Connor closes his eyes and leans into his touch, and Hank lingers just long enough to trace the curve of Connor's ear before he drops his hand to the couch.

"Didn't mean to fall asleep," he says. "You could have woken me up and herded me off to bed."

Connor shrugs. "I was comfortable. You're comfortable." He emphasizes his point by giving Hank's soft side a gentle squeeze.

And maybe Hank should feel weird about Connor grabbing a handful of his chub, but the thing is: it feels good, and if it makes Connor want to stay curled up against him like this, all warm and sweet, he really can't complain. 

It's past dawn but not by much, Hank figures; the pale, hazy light in the living room makes this entire situation feel unreal and dreamlike. The fact that he woke up to Connor draped across his chest makes it more so, of course. Hank doesn't feel awake enough to quite work out just what this means, if it means anything at all, but he suspects if he doesn't chase down this thread now, he'll lose his chance.

Still. He'd rather just enjoy the moment. He tentatively rubs his hand down Connor's back, like he did the night before, but instead of trying to soothe his hurt he just wants to give him warm, tender pressure. Connor sighs and settles his head on Hank's chest; he's placed his face angled mostly down into the small valley between his pecs and by accident it looks like he's about to motorboat him. Hank fights the urge to laugh.

"What is it?" Connor asks, and he starts to raise his head but Hank gently presses it back down and smooths his hand over his shoulders.

"Nothing, I'm just having a moment," Hank says. "It's still early, isn't it? Guess I didn't get enough sleep." He knows he could reach behind him and grab his phone from the table to check the time, but he'd rather stay put for now.

"It's 6:21," Connor answers. "You could go back to sleep, if you wanted. The market doesn't open until 8, and there's no need to arrive right when it opens."

"Sure there is," Hank says. "Did you forget those fucking delicious pecan rolls? Anyway, enough sleep or not I'm wide awake now, so I may as well roll with it." He yawns. "Maybe I'll make some coffee first, though."

"All right," Connor replies, but he doesn't get up, and Hank doesn't try to shift him off, even though he really could use some coffee. Plus, his neck and lower back are starting to yell at him, and now that he's awake he really needs to take a piss.

Hank figures all that can wait, at least for a few minutes longer. He thinks, _I have no idea what's going on._

The needs of his body win out, eventually; after a few more slow breaths, during which he tries to memorize the feeling of Connor curled up above and beside him in case this never happens again, he shifts a bit and taps Connor's shoulder.

"Gotta get up for real, now," he says. 

His back pops when he stands up, and while he winces at the sound he does feel a bit better afterwards. Less tense. He figures a stretch and a hot shower will loosen things up; hopefully he won't be sore all day, but if he is, he figures it will have been worth it.

He starts up the coffee maker after a brief bathroom detour and busies himself while it brews by washing the dishes he'd left in the sink the night before. There's a dishwasher right next to him, but having something to do with his hands seems like a good idea. Hank feels awkward and fidgety, unsure about what to do with himself or what to say to Connor, who he can see is quietly working on the sweater he'd started knitting a couple nights ago. Maybe it shouldn't feel like something's changed between them, and Hank again reminds himself that he can't assume anything about Connor's feelings based on what he'd think about a human doing the same things, but waking up with Connor on top of him like that...he can't ignore how good that felt. How _right_ it felt.

Hank's been trying so hard not to fall for Connor, but if he's honest with himself he knows he crossed that bridge long ago. It's pointless to pretend otherwise.

If he can't have what he really wants--it seems so silly to think Connor would want the same thing that he doesn't dwell on it too much--he wants to be okay with what he has. It has to be enough. It will. 

Hank repeats this to himself as he finishes his coffee, as he lets Sumo out in the yard, as he stands under the hot spray of the shower, letting the warmth seep into his neck and shoulders.

_Don't think about what else you want from him_ , he thinks. _What you want to give him_.

Resolve builds in Hank's chest as he gets dressed. He feels the awkwardness and confusion he'd felt upon waking up start to bleed away.

"Is this the sort of market you can bring dogs to?" he asks, once he's ready to go. "Should we bring Sumo along?"

He steps out into the living room, where Connor's waiting for him, and his newfound sense of resolve collapses immediately.

Connor's clearly dressed for warm weather, even though he doesn't overheat in normal temperatures the way Hank does. He's wearing a t-shirt covered in a lively pineapple print and a pair of shorts so short Hank feels his breath catch in his throat. Hank has tried not to think too much about what Connor's thighs look like, just like he's done his best not to imagine the rest of him naked, but now he knows, and the knowledge will haunt him forever. 

There's a fucking mole just an inch below the bottom of the shorts, for fuck's sake, and all Hank wants to do is get down in front of Connor and kiss it. He's trying so hard not to stare like a fool that he misses Connor's response and has to ask him to repeat himself. 

"I said that sadly, this market doesn't allow any pets, just service animals, so we'll have to leave Sumo at home."

Hank shrugs and tries not to look like he just had a near-religious experience seeing Connor's bare legs. "Makes sense, I guess. Should we, uh, get going?" 

"Sure!" Connor says, and he looks genuinely excited. This was his idea, after all; Hank figures it shouldn't be surprising that Connor's looking forward to it.

"Silly question, maybe," he says, as they step outside. The rain had stopped sometime overnight, but it had brought slightly cooler weather with it. Hank's sure it'll warm up as the day progresses, but the morning air actually feels good, which is a welcome surprise. "But what do you get out of going to a farmers' market, when you can't eat anything?"

"It's still appealing," Connor says. "Do you remember what I said yesterday, about being interested in how people relate to food?"

"Sure," Hank says. "Bonding over traditions, right? And you like watching me eat." Connor gives him a little smile at that, although Hank thinks he'd be blushing if he had the ability. 

"I find the ways people relate to food interesting. I think there will be plenty of things there to hold my attention." He smiles at Hank as they settle into the car. "To be honest, I thought you might enjoy it as well, and I wanted to do something with you this weekend. Something we hadn't done before."

Hank's glad he has driving to focus on, so his mind can't go too far down the road of contemplating all the things he and Connor haven't done together. He shoves thoughts about the pale expanse of Connor's thighs aside, although he's sure he'll revisit them later. 

The market's on the outskirts of the city, closer to the farms to the northwest, although of course there are more urban farms within Detroit now than there were when the market first opened. Hank enjoys the drive; the streets are quiet this early on a weekend, and he thinks about how long it's been since just went driving anywhere. For fun. It feels like an old-fashioned thing to do, even for someone his age, but he used to enjoy it.

He has a thought.

"You've never been outside the city, have you? I mean really outside of it. Out in the country." 

"No," Connor says. "I'd like to someday, though."

"What if--" Hank feels self-conscious as the suggestion starts to tumble out, but he may as well see it through. "What if some day we drive out somewhere, take a--a hike, or something? Out in the woods? Or whatever you want." 

"That sounds wonderful. I'd love to go hiking with you, Hank."

"Let's go in a few months, though. When it cools down a little, and when the leaves start to turn."

Connor rests his hand on Hank's shoulder for a moment, and when Hank glances over, he's giving him a sweet, soft smile. "I'll remind you, then. When the leaves change, we'll go."

Hank thinks, not for the first time, how small Connor's world was designed to be. How limited. He deserves to see so much more, experience more, than he has so far. And Hank wants to be there for it, if he can. 

The market's grown since the last time Hank visited. There's a broad, open-sided shelter set up in a field, lined with booths selling produce, flowers, and baked goods. It's early, still, but there's a good-sized crowd already.

The pecan rolls Hank's been looking forward to are somehow even better than he remembered them. "I really wish you could taste this," he says, around a mouthful of toasted pecans. "Fuck me, it's so good."

"Tell me about it," Connor says. "What does it taste like?"

"Well, shit, now I have to think about it," Hank grumbles, but he's happy to narrate his breakfast if that's what Connor wants. "It's, uh, some kind of sweet bread, and there's a fuckton of pecans in here and they've rolled it up with a bunch of spices." He takes another bite and chews thoughtfully. "Cinnamon, obviously. Nutmeg? I think that's in there, too. Maybe orange zest or something."

"Can I?" Connor asks, his fingers outstretched.

"Uh, sure, knock yourself out."

He dips his forefinger in the sugary spice goo that's started to drip out of the roll and brings it to his mouth. Hank knows he doesn't _need_ to watch this, but it's hard not to watch Connor delicately place his finger in his mouth for analysis.

"What do you think?"

"The sugar content's quite high."

Hank laughs. "Well yeah, I could have told you that, boss. 's what makes it so good."

Once Hank's finished eating, they head into the market proper. "I should have thought about what else I wanted to get, huh?" Hank asks, as they pass by the first booth of produce. "I guess tomatoes are probably in season, I'll grab some of those at least. Maybe make some sandwiches this week." He's peering at a display of multicolored tomatoes, lost in thought, so he doesn't pay attention to what's at the next booth over until Connor speaks up.

"Hank, do you want to try a plum?"

Hank turns slowly, half-expecting to see Connor in the gauzy robe, but no, he's dressed normally, even if those tiny shorts have his dick just as interested. He's holding out a small slice of yellow plum that clearly came from a man holding a sample tray and not from the sexiest dream Hank's had in his life.

Still, he can see a hint of juice on Connor's fingers. He wants to suck them clean. 

Connor raises his eyebrows, a silent repetition of his question, and Hank realizes it's been a few seconds since Connor offered the slice of plum to him and he's just been staring at it. At Connor.

"Oh, uh. Yeah! Sure," he says, shaking himself out of his reverie and stepping around to the next booth. Before he can reach out to take the plum, Connor smoothly steps right in front of him, lifting the slice to his mouth. "C'mon, you don't have to--" Hank starts to protest, but Connor ignores him completely and slides the plum into his mouth before Hank can manage to avoid it.

Connor's fingers stay chastely outside of Hank's mouth as he pops the fruit in; if Hank had leaned forward and taken the plum himself, he could have sucked a finger or two into his mouth along with it, and made sure they were clean before he let them go. 

Hank had started to wonder, recently, how sensitive those fingers would be in a more personal context, not just when used for police work, but he can't think about that at the moment, he really can't, because he doesn't want to be a creep with a huge, visible erection striding through the farmers' market and terrifying the nice families who'd stopped by to pick out a nice goat cheese and some flowers to take home. He's mortified enough already, he doesn't need to traumatize anyone on top of it.

Connor's watching him, of course, because he's eating something so Connor will be interested to hear what he thinks, and he tries to school his expression into something thoughtful. He chews slowly and enjoys the juicy sweetness of the plum, which really is fucking delicious. It's soft and ripe and he HAS to stop thinking about juice dripping everywhere before he embarrasses himself.

"It's good," he finally manages to say, in response to Connor's questioning look. "Really good, fuck."

"A little messy, though," Connor says. He lifts his fingers to his mouth and Hank has to turn away the moment he sees a glimpse of his tongue.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters. Between this...this plum-based torment and Connor's outfit, he's pretty sure he won't have a moment's peace for the rest of the day.

"Which one was that?" Hank asks the man holding the tray of samples, and he's directed to a crate of small, rosy-gold plums nestled in between larger bushels of peaches. He can't resist getting a half-dozen of them, even though he worries he's going to get turned on just eating them. As if he isn't constantly trying to tell his dick to calm the fuck down already. 

They take their time, strolling through every stall even though there isn't that much Hank actually wants to buy; it's nice just to walk with Connor and make idle comments about what's in season and which booth's vegetables look the nicest.

Sometimes Connor touches his forearm to get his attention in the lively crowd, and Hank can't stop thinking about how it would feel to rest his hand on Connor's lower back as they walk along, or drape an arm across his shoulders to steer him over towards something he knows Connor will like. His hand twitches at his side, longing to ruffle the hair at the base of Connor's neck.

He picks up some tomatoes for sandwiches, a loaf of dark rye bread, a small, precious container of blackberries. Connor asks the man running a goat-milk soap booth so many questions about the intricacies of soapmaking that Hank has time to smell everything twice; he leaves with a bar of eucalyptus and mint scented soap and Connor's managed to earn an invitation to an upcoming soapmaking workshop by the time the conversation's over.

"I swear, Connor, you can charm the pants off of anyone in ten minutes," Hank chuckles, as they step to the side of the crowd to tuck the soap away in their growing collection of purchases.

"You say that, but somehow, your pants are still on," Connor replies dryly.

"You know what I mean," Hank grumbles, flustered. He's not entirely sure what Connor himself means, to be honest, but it hits a little close to home.

Connor just winks at him, and slings the tote bag over his shoulder. "I suppose I just need to turn up the charm."

Hank doesn't know how to say he's so enthralled by Connor's charm already that there's no point trying any harder, but he gets that it's a joke anyway, so he lets it go.

He does indulge himself just a bit and gently rests his hand on Connor's back as they re-enter the stream of shoppers in the market. Just to make sure they get through the crowd together. That's all. 

Connor leans into Hank, just for a moment, and walks a little closer to him once his hand settles there. Hank drops his arm, once they've moved out of the thickest part of the crowd, but Connor smoothly loops his arm through Hank's and pulls him into a booth full of flowers. 

"Uh," Hank says.

"All right?" Connor asks, quietly.

"Yeah, just. Yeah."

"Anything I can help you gentlemen with?" the booth's attendant calls, from behind a huge bucket of gladiolus stems she's bundling into bouquets.

"Just admiring for now," Connor replies. "Hank, do you have a favorite flower?"

"When I was younger I tried to be an orchid guy for a minute," Hank says. "Couldn't keep them alive too well, though, they're fussy. These are nice, though," he says, pointing at a spray of dahlias, each petal fading from peach at the tips to a pale yellow near the center. "I'm sure I have a vase somewhere at home, you think we should get some?"

"Seems like a crime to have a handsome young man on your arm and not buy him flowers," the attendant says, and Connor's laugh in response is so sweet to hear that Hank can't help but agree. 

Connor offers to carry the flowers, since he doesn't want to put them in the bag with their other things and risk them getting crushed, and Hank feels a little twinge in his heart when he hands them over. It's been a long time since he's given someone flowers, and of course this isn't like he showed up with them as a gift or anything, but it makes him think about other sweet little things he'd love to do for Connor.

It doesn't help that the booth attendant gives him a wink and a knowing smile, like she's in on a secret. Hank wishes he was in on it, too. 

Connor cradles the flowers gently, but the moment they step out of the booth and into the growing crowd, he takes Hank's arm again, like it's a natural reflex. Like this is what they always do, when they're together.

Hank thinks maybe this is just his life right now: a string of moments with Connor that lead to confusion with a side of simmering arousal. It isn't that he dislikes it, because of course he doesn't, but he hasn't been able to gather his thoughts enough to figure out what it all means, and he's afraid to ask directly.

Because the thing is, and Hank's finally able to admit this as they continue walking together and he sees other couples--people who are clearly romantic partners, with no ambiguity to be found--whose body language and slow pace and sappy smiles mirror what's happening between Connor and himself: 

This feels like a date.

It's been ages since Hank's been on one, sure, and he knows that as good as he can be at police work, he can be entirely clueless in his own life, but he doesn't know what else to call this feeling, this energy that's brewing between the two of them today. 

He just can't imagine asking Connor about it. If Hank's wrong, or if Connor's maybe trying to practice what dating feels like so he can go out and have some fun with other (younger, more attractive, more deserving) partners once he feels confident, Hank doesn't know what he'll do. 

His face feels hot, not just because the market is heating up as the morning progresses and the crowd gets thicker. It's hard to be pressed so close to Connor and not feel like he's overheating. Connor notices, of course.

"Do you want to take a break?" he asks, nudging them off to the side of the crowd again, and he points towards a cluster of trees at the edge of the market shelter. "We could sit in the shade for a bit, if you'd like to cool off away from everyone."

That sounds good to Hank; he's ready to get off his feet for a little while, and he's probably done all the shopping he needs to do. He's getting thirsty, too, but that's easy enough to fix. 

"Sure thing," he says. "Why don't you head over and get settled, and I'll meet you there in a sec, after I grab a drink." Connor nods and gives him a smile, probably excited that Hank's remembering to hydrate in the heat, and Hank heads for a nearby booth where a beekeeper's selling glasses of honey-sweetened lemonade.

Hank takes some deep breaths as he waits in the short line for his drink. He wants to enjoy this time with Connor without worrying about what it means and what Connor's thinking. Without worrying about how hard it's becoming to keep his own feelings safely hidden away, and whether he'll be able to keep them contained at all for much longer.

Maybe he's already failed.

He's probably going to have to say something to Connor, if things continue in this vein. But, he decides, for today he's going to do his best to just enjoy it. He doesn't know if this means he's being a coward or just practical.

Hank's mildly surprised to see Connor animatedly talking to someone as he approaches the shady spot with his drink. Connor gets along well with others, sure, but he doesn't necessarily go out of his way to start conversations with strangers. Maybe this person was complimenting his pineapple shirt. Or his legs, for that matter.

Connor can see Hank over the newcomer's shoulder and waves him over with a smile as he approaches.

Hank's even less interested in chatting with strangers than Connor is, most days, but he shrugs and wanders over, bracing himself with a gulp of sharp, sweet lemonade. As he approaches, though, it becomes clear that this isn't a stranger at all, at least not to Connor. He's smiling too much, and he reaches out and touches the other person's arm as he talks: that's something he'll do with Hank, and with other friends, but Hank's never seen him touch someone he doesn't know like that.

It's nice to see. He knows Connor enjoys that kind of friendly physical contact, and he's glad there are more people in the world he feels comfortable having it with than just himself. He wants so much for Connor, and while a lot of those wants are tied up in Hank's own desires, he also wants the rest of his life to be as full as possible. 

"Ran into a friend, huh?" Hank asks, once he's reached the two of them. The other person turns at the the sound of his voice, and Hank sees he's another android. Not a model he's familiar with, but his face looks like it was designed to be blandly handsome. Unobtrusive. The thing about deviancy, Hank thinks, as he sees this android's wide, expressive eyes and sharp smile, is that once you develop your own thoughts and preferences, you aren't going to be bland anymore. Connor's always been good-looking, Hank can admit now, but the more expressive he gets, and the more excited he is about the world, the more beautiful Hank finds his face.

"Yes!" Connor chirps, almost manically. Hank can't tell if he's excited or nervous; likely it's a bit of both. "Lukas, this is--"

"Of course I know who this is," Lukas says, as if he's offended Connor would assume otherwise. "Hank, it's a pleasure to meet you after hearing so much about you." He shakes Hank's hand and gives him a clear once-over before letting go. "You are a big boy, aren't you?" he asks, placing a hand over his heart. "And you bought him flowers, too." 

"And HANK," Connor says firmly, as if Lukas hadn't spoken, "this is my friend Lukas, from my Wednesday night meetings."

It's at this moment that Hank remembers where he's heard that name before.

"Oh!" he says, and scrambles to continue so it doesn't sound like he just remembered the existence of Lukas' new dick. "Oh yeah, from your meetings. Connor has a lot of good things to say about that group, so it's uh, it's great to meet you."

"We were just going to sit in the shade here for a minute, to take a break from the crowd," Connor says. "Would you like to join us?" He looks at Hank as if he's asking him as well, and Hank nods; he isn't going to say no to spending time with one of Connor's friends, even if all he knows about this one is that he isn't afraid to whip it out for a show and tell session. And that he just called Hank a "big boy," for fuck's sake. What was that about?

The three of them settle on a patch of lush grass in the shade. Connor lets his legs stretch out in front of him, crossed delicately at the ankle, and it's such a temptation to stare. The mole Hank had noticed earlier on his inner thigh can be clearly seen if he peeks over, which he tries his hardest not to do.

Hank fishes ice cubes out of his lemonade and sucks on them as Lukas and Connor catch up. He doesn't have much to contribute, which suits him fine; sometimes it's nice to just sit back and let conversation wash over him. He's better at listening than talking most of the time, anyway. He laughs where it's appropriate, nods along when a good point is made, and otherwise occupies himself with keeping cool and watching Connor.

"Speaking of which," Lukas says, after a story Hank had only been half listening to because he'd been distracted by Connor's mouth, "have you made a decision about those upgrades you were considering?" He waggles his eyebrows as he says it; even if Hank hadn't already known what he was asking about, it would be pretty easy to make an educated guess.

"Yes," Connor says. "I think I have."

Hank perks up just a bit at this, but he doesn't press for more info; he figures if Connor wants to let him know the details, he'll say something later.

Plus, he figures Lukas will do plenty of pressing on his own, and he's right.

"Well? Are you going to share the details? Maybe a model number, if you've picked one out? Or a size?" He frames a few suggestive shapes and sizes with his hands, his smile getting wider as his hands travel farther apart.

"I do know what you're talking about, you know," Hank says. It seems like Lukas is trying to be subtle, but Hank is pretty sure he's entirely incapable of subtlety so he wants to throw him a bone.

"Oh, of course he would have discussed this with you!" Lukas says with a giant, shit-eating grin. "What do you think, Hank? I assume you're in favor?"

"I'm in favor of Connor doing what he wants with his own body," Hank says. It was awkward to discuss this with Connor himself, in the privacy of their own home, but doing so in a public park with a near-stranger is so weird he just rolls with it. "I don't think my opinion needs to enter into it at all, honestly."

"That's a sweet thing to say, but surely you have your preferences?"

"I mean." Hank suspects he's stumbled into an entirely different conversation, one that he's not prepared for. "I don't see how my preferences should matter." 

"Well, let's assume they do, just for fun." Lukas suggests. "As a thought exercise. What sort of, ah, sexual equipment do you prefer, in a partner? What would you choose, if you had options?"

Hank glances over at Connor, who's been quiet for a minute; he's flashing yellow but  
gives Hank a tight, apologetic smile when they make eye contact. Is he embarrassed to be discussing this in public, or that Hank's been pulled into the conversation? He seemed fine talking with Hank about it before, but maybe it's different to have a friend around at the same  
time. He doesn't want to upset Connor and isn't sure what the right move is, here.

He's also hesitant to give this guy a monologue about what he prefers in a partner or in bed. "I'm easy to please," Hank says, slowly, and that gets another sweet smile from Connor, although Lukas waves his hand dismissively.

"Come on, you have to have something."

"When I'm into someone it doesn't matter what I find when I get in their pants, you know?" Hank shrugs. "Really, I, um. I guess I'm into everything. All, uh. Options."

"Hank."

"Yeah?"

"Are. You. A. Size. Queen." 

Hank nearly chokes on the ice cube he's just popped into his mouth, but he's able to cough for a moment and recover. He has no idea how to respond to this question, or even better: how to avoid responding entirely, but before he manages to work it out, Connor's hand clamps down on his forearm.

"Hank," Connor says, a bit too loudly, "I didn't realize it had gotten to late. Sumo's appointment at the groomer's is at 11, remember?"

Hank does not remember, but he's not stupid, so he nods and tries to look concerned. "Oh shit, yeah, what time is it?" 

"Time to be on our way, I'm afraid," Connor says. He stands up quickly and offers a hand to Lukas, who looks amused, as if he thinks Hank can't manage to refuse a question on his own and Connor had to come to his rescue.

Lukas' smile wavers, though, as he accepts Connor's hand up; for just a moment, Hank sees a patch of white spread across their fingers as their hands touch and their skin peels away. Lukas winces. "Connor, I--"

"It's all right," Connor replies with a smile, although Hank suspects it's not all right, whatever it is. "I'll see you Wednesday?" 

"Sure thing," Lukas says. He pulls Connor into a hug and ruffles his hair as he steps away. 

He shakes Hank's hand again as Connor gathers their purchases together, and while Connor's back is turned, he shakes his head and murmurs "you gotta buy him more flowers."

"What?" 

"Figure it out, man," Lukas says, and offers no further clarification.

Connor walks quickly towards the car, not turning back to see if Hank's following; Hank has to hurry to catch up to him. "Hey," he says, when he reaches the car. Connor's staring at the passenger side window. Is he checking his reflection? Trying to avoid looking at Hank? He has no idea. "Connor, are--" he reaches a hand out, then lets it fall to his side. He can't tell if it would be welcome. "Are you okay?"

"Not really."

Hank unlocks the door and is at least glad Connor gets in; he has the vague worry he doesn't want to be near him at all right now. "I know we aren't taking Sumo anywhere today, so do you want to tell me what that was about?"

"No."

Hank takes a deep breath. He's been knocked entirely off-kilter; the easy closeness (affection?) that's been simmering between them all morning is gone.

"Not yet," Connor says. He traces his fingers over the delicate petals of one of the dahlias. "Give me time? I'll tell you later."

"Sure," Hank says, hesitantly. "I hope I didn't say something wrong back there."

"I'm not mad at you." 

"That's not a no," Hank sighs. "I'm sorry. For what it's worth, this was really nice." He waves his hand to indicate the market behind them. "I enjoyed being here with you."

"Me too, Hank," Connor says. "I just need some time. Let me know when we're home." He closes his eyes, and a moment later Hank sees his LED pulse in the slow, regular rhythm that indicates he's gone into stasis. It's a very clear end to the conversation.

"What the fuck happened?" Hank mutters. He rests his forehead on the steering wheel and lets the a/c blast him straight in the face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [@hankcocrumbs](https://twitter.com/hankcocrumbs/) on twitter who drew super cute art of pineapple-shirt-Connor, which can be found [here](https://twitter.com/hankcocrumbs/status/1217304224398114816)! 🍍🤖 🥰


	4. Chapter 4

Hank takes his time driving home. He isn't sure what he'll do when he gets there, how he'll occupy himself if Connor's still distant or if he tells him he seriously fucked things up somehow, so he takes a longer route, staying off the highway and winding through less-familiar neighborhoods. He thinks about stopping for an early lunch, but after eyeing the bag of food on the floor by Connor's feet he decides against it. If he has an appetite later, which is feeling less and less likely by the minute, he'll make himself some tomato sandwiches.

He steals glances at Connor every so often as he drives. He doesn't see him in stasis that often, and it's always an odd sight; his artificial breathing is much shallower, just enough to keep him from looking like a mannequin, and his face is smoothed out and slack, without any of the expression it usually carries. He looks less like himself, but Hank still wants to wrap his arms around him; just like last night, when he'd fumbled his words and upset Connor by mistake, all he wants to do is pull him close.

This time, though, he isn't sure just what he's done to upset him, and not knowing makes him embarrassed and angry with himself. He knows he should be able to figure it out.

That's what Lukas had said to him, right? What else had he said? Buy Connor more flowers?  
Connor has the dahlias cradled gently to his chest, so he won't crush them in stasis. "Christ," Hank mutters, because he's pretty sure Connor can't hear him, "I'd buy him flowers every goddamn day if he wanted." He can think of so many things he wants to do for him. With him. 

But if he doesn't know it's welcome, he can't...he can't just start throwing flowers and gifts and kisses around. And. The rest of what he thinks about. He can't just beg Connor to tell him details about the upgrade he's apparently decided on by now because he's thirsty for information about what Connor wants sexually and maybe wants specific details to think about while he's shut up in his bedroom at night wondering what he did to mess things up between them.

Fuck, he feels like a dirty old man just thinking that when he knows Connor's in distress. Hank had started the drive trying to give himself time to just sit with his feelings and with the events of the past few days before he started chasing any thoughts down rabbitholes, but by the time he pulls into the driveway, his mind's in a dark, messy tangle and more than anything else he's furious at himself for missing something obvious. 

Once the key's out of the ignition, he hesitates with his hand outstretched towards Connor once again. He's seemed so happy to have Hank touch him, especially these last couple days, but would he accept it now? He isn't sure what else to do, though, so he places his hand over Connor's and strokes his thumb over his knuckles for a few seconds.

Connor blinks rapidly and Hank sees the moment the still mask of stasis drops and his face floods with life again. He pulls his hand back, in case Connor doesn't want to be touched right now (or at least, not by Hank), but second-guesses himself: if he does want contact, did drawing away so quickly just hurt him more?

He sighs. He can't let himself get so caught up in his own thoughts like this, although he knows it's too late to stop it from happening.

"We're, uh. We're back home."  
  
"Thanks," Connor says, and while his eyes are sad he gives Hank a smile so sweet his heart hurts. He scoops up the bag of produce and sweeps up the steps and into the house before Hank even has his car door closed. He busies himself finding a suitable container for the dahlias, and waves Hank away when he tries to unpack the rest of their purchases.  
  
"I've got it," he says, and he keeps looking at Hank, mouth parted like he's going to say something else, but nothing comes and he eventually shakes his head and looks away.  
  
"I'm gonna take Sumo out," Hank says, finally, when it's clear Connor doesn't have anything else to say.  
  
"Okay," Connor replies. "We should probably talk, though. After."  
  
Hank nods, but he's never had those words lead to anything good. His heart sinks as he whistles for Sumo and lets him out to romp in the sun. It's good to take a moment with him, Hank thinks; something about seeing his big dumbass dog snuffle around is inherently soothing. It's warmer now than it was when they left home earlier, but even close to midday it's not unbearably hot outside. Sumo eats some grass, pisses on half the bushes in the backyard, then plants himself in the softest patch of grass and soaks up the sun.  
  
Hank crouches next to him and digs his fingers into the warm dark fur on his back, scratching his favorite spot. "Things are so simple for you, huh?" he asks, and Sumo wags in response. "You get fed, you get petted, everyone loves you because there's no way they can't, when they see that big goofy face of yours. You're a lucky mutt, you know that?"  
  
Sumo whuffs and licks Hank's hand, and he figures that's as close to a "yes" as he'll ever get. He stays outside for a while, longer than he originally intended, but he knows he can't be a coward for the entire day; eventually he coaxes Sumo back inside with a pig ear and follows him into the living room, where Sumo makes a beeline for his bed and starts gnawing on it happily.  
  
Hank joins Connor on the couch where he's sitting more stiffly than Hank's seen him for months now. He's arranged the dahlias in a vase Hank barely recognizes that must have been in the back of a cupboard somewhere, and even in his distress he has to admit that they really are lovely. Little explosions of petals, like fireworks frozen in midair. "They look good," he says, nodding at the flowers as he takes a seat. Not at the opposite end of the couch, but not too close either. He's not sure what would be the greater misstep and tries to split the difference.  
  
"They're beautiful flowers," Connor says. "Thank you."  
  
"Hey, if there's something I did right today, I'm glad of it," Hank says, awkwardly.  
  
"Don't say that. How I'm feeling..." Connor looks down at his hands, clasped tightly in his lap. "It's not about you doing something wrong."  
  
"Can you explain it to me? So I can help, or at least try to understand? I feel like I'm missing something, because it sure feels like I fucked up somewhere."  
  
Connor keeps staring at his hands. "I'm not sure where to start."  
  
"Can you tell me why you wanted to rush out of there so quick? You and Lukas are friends, right? Should I not have said anything when you were talking about your," he gestures vaguely at his groin, "your upgrade situation?"  
  
"I was embarrassed," Connor says, very quietly.  
  
"Okay. So, I probably did say something wrong, is that it?"  
  
Connor shakes his head, still not looking at Hank. "I was embarrassed because he thought we were romantically involved."  
  
Oh.  
  
Hank has the lightheaded, stomach-turning sensation of being on a rollercoaster that's just starting to submit to gravity as it tips over the crest of a hill. He always hated rollercoasters.  
  
"Jesus, I know I'm not much of a catch, but I didn't know I was bad enough that you'd run off if someone thought of us that way." It comes out harsher than he intends but even though he doesn't expect Connor to feel the same, it hurts to think he'd be so disgusted by the idea that he'd just run away.  
  
"Don't say that," Connor snaps. "You know that's not what I meant."  
  
"What, then? Connor, I know exactly jack shit right now. I thought we were having a good time, and now you don't want to look at me."  
  
"I'm embarrassed because I've done my best to let you know I'm interested in you, to an extent that several people have noticed and drawn their own conclusions, but you haven't responded. I can only interpret this as a rejection, or as a sign that I'm so terrible at expressing romantic feelings that you can't even see what I'm doing; either possibility is embarrassing and unpleasant to consider."  
  
Hank's stomach has bypassed the rollercoaster and is in full I-forgot-my-parachute freefall. He opens his mouth to speak, although he's pretty sure the only thing he could manage to say is "what," or perhaps "uhhhh," but Connor holds up a hand to stop him.  
  
"You've let me be so close to you, lately, and I let myself hope, but. I know you've kept your distance, that you've hesitated around me. Talking about sexual upgrades has made you uncomfortable, as much as you've tried to hide it."  
  
Connor's crying now, and Hank's hands shift anxiously on his thighs. He just wants to hold him, but he feels frozen in place.  
  
"I thought you must not want me or I'm not doing this right or I don't understand what love even IS and maybe I shouldn't feel this way at all, and I--" he breaks off with a sob.  
  
A dam bursts within Hank; whatever distance he's tried to set between himself and Connor, whatever he's told himself about how he can be happy, or happy enough, being close to him but never letting on how much closer he'd like to be, is swept away in the wild rush of it.  
  
"Hey, no, Connor," he says, that's not it at all, I'm just--I--"  
  
He isn't sure what to say, but comforting Connor seems more important, in this moment, than getting his words exactly right. He opens his arms and reaches for him. "Come here, honey, it's okay."  
  
And just like the night before, Connor melts into him. Hank pulls him up onto his lap and lets himself hold Connor the way he wanted to before: he wraps his arms around him as tightly as possible, pressing him to his chest and bringing one large hand up to cradle Connor's neck and the back of his head. Connor sobs again and sinks into his embrace, leaning his head on Hank's shoulder while Hank rubs his back and pets his hair.  
  
"I'm sorry," Hank murmurs quietly, as Connor shakes out the rest of his sadness into his shoulder. "You weren't doing a bad job of letting me know how you felt. I was trying so hard not to see it, because I couldn't bear to be wrong if I got my hopes up. Felt easier to try not to let myself want anything at all, but. It didn't work."  
  
"I've learned," Connor says into Hank's shirt, "that ignoring feelings does not make them go away."  
  
"See, this is why you're smarter than me," Hank says. He scratches his nails against Connor's scalp gently as he cards his fingers through his hair, and is rewarded with a tiny sigh. "I meant what I said, last night, that I can't imagine someone rejecting you, because I could never--" he stops abruptly, heart sinking, and Connor leans back to look at him.  
  
"You could never?"  
  
"Shit, Connor you were telling me, flat-out telling me you were worried about being rejected, and I was so far up my own ass I couldn't even tell you were talking about me. I was so wrapped up in making sure I wasn't letting on how I felt that I must have sounded like the most oblivious asshole last night."  
  
"I thought maybe you were trying to be kind," Connor says. "Letting me save face by turning me down indirectly."  
  
Hank cups Connor's face in his hands and wipes a tear from his cheeks with his thumb. His eyes are so goddamn beautiful when he's this close. "You know I can't say no to you," he says. "But, Connor." He has to make himself say this, he can't live with himself if he doesn't. "Are you sure. About me, I mean."  
  
"I think you were the first thing I was ever sure of," Connor says quietly. "I know what I want."  
  
"Which is what, exactly?"  
  
"I want to be in a relationship with you. I want to be close to you, like this." He nuzzles into Hank's hand. "I want people to see us, like they did today, and know we're together." He runs a hand lightly down Hank's chest and kneads at the soft swell of his belly. "And when I have the augmentation procedure that allows for sexual pleasure, I want to explore that. With you."  
  
"Fuck, Connor, all of that--yeah. That's what I want too." Hank presses on; he can't keep himself from giving Connor the space to back out of his decision. "It's just that you're so...so new, still, and you have so much to explore and so much ahead of you, and I don't want you to feel tied down to a tired old homebody when you should be out living the life you deserve."  
  
"What do you think I deserve," Connor says, "that you can't give me?"  
  
"Someone, I don't know, younger? More attractive? More exciting?"  
  
"I feel plenty of excitement when I'm around you," Connor responds. "And I find you incredibly attractive."  
  
"No accounting for taste," Hank mutters. He feels his face flush, which makes the moment twice as embarrassing.  
  
"Hank, if you don't want a relationship with me, you're free to say so. That's your choice. But," he says sharply, as Hank scrambles to say of course he wants one, "Don't disrespect me by saying I don't know what I'm doing, or that you're an undesirable partner, as if I can't decide that for myself. I want what I already have with you, just. More."  
  
"More, huh?" Hank says. He lets his hands fall to Connor's hips. "Like what?"  
  
"Kiss me."  
  
Connor's face is already so close to his, with his eyes wide and lovely and his mouth just barely parted, but even so Hank feels the moment it takes to close the distance between them and press his mouth to Connor's stretch out as if he's watching a recording played back in slow motion. Hank brings a hand to Connor's chin to tilt his head just a bit; Connor sighs and lets his eyes flutter shut at the contact. He presses a gentle kiss to his lips, brief and nearly chaste, and then another, one that lingers long enough for Connor to moan and open his mouth hungrily, searching for more contact. Hank teases at his lips with his tongue, coaxing another small sound out of Connor, who presses himself more closely against Hank and lets his hand wander idly across his chest and shoulders.  
  
"That feel good?" Hank murmurs, pulling back to kiss his way down Connor's neck and back again.  
  
"Yes," Connor says, shakily, but before Hank can ask anything else, Connor grabs him by the back of the neck and pulls him in for more.  
  
As with anything else he shows an interest in, Connor throws himself into kissing with a great deal of enthusiasm; Hank has to ease him off after he clicks their teeth together a couple times, but he appreciates the clear enjoyment Connor's getting out of it.  
  
It's been so long since Hank had someone on his lap enthusiastically making out with him that he'd nearly forgotten how much he loves it, but the experience of Connor sighing and moaning on his lap while he maps out the internal landscape of Hank's mouth is more than enough to remind him. Fuck, it feels so good to have Connor close to him like this, to be able to touch him and hold him and not worry that he'll let on how much he loves having him close and how much _more_ he wants, because for whatever baffling reason Connor wants it too. Wants him.  
  
Hank thinks about what Connor said about the sexual upgrade, and about exploring it with him, and becomes painfully aware of how hard he is. With Connor on his lap, kissing him so messily and eagerly, there was no way he could avoid it. He's not concerned with doing anything about it, for now, though; he wants to focus on Connor and whatever he wants, for the moment. Maybe forever. "I want to make you feel good," Hank murmurs in Connor's ear before gently nipping his earlobe. "You wanna keep doing this? Something else?"  
  
"Everything feels good," Connor sighs, and he tilts his head so Hank has better access to his neck. "It's--it's a little overwhelming."  
  
"You need to stop?"  
  
"No, but I think I want to take things slowly, if that's all right."  
  
"Sure thing," Hank says. "I'm not in a rush."  
  
"You're aroused," Connor says, and he shifts in Hank's lap to rub against his erection.  
  
"Fuck," Hank groans. "Of course I am, Connor, but just because my dick's hard doesn't mean I expect you to do anything about it."  
  
"I want to," Connor says. "I've thought about it," and that does test Hank's restraint just a bit; the urge to grab Connor by the hips and grind up against him is tempting, especially after hearing that, but he's good at making himself wait. He wants Connor to take things at his own pace, and if that means he gets blueballed now and then, that's fine.  
  
"I have too," he says. "Like I said, I'm in no rush but when you feel ready for more, you can have it. Whatever you want."  
  
"Oh," Connor moans. "Say that again."  
  
"Whatever you want, sweetheart," Hank says, and pulls Connor in for another kiss. Connor whines into his mouth, needy and overstimulated, and when he pulls back he looks drunk on pleasure. "This is really doing it for you, huh?" Hank asks.  
  
Connor nods and nuzzles into Hank's shoulder. "My oral sensors are very sensitive." He licks Hank's neck, and okay, that's a little weird, but it still feels good. "I don't how how to describe the feeling, but tasting you is incredible. I'm being flooded with your data."  
  
Hank has the strange realization that "I'm being flooded with your data" is the hottest thing a partner's ever said to him. "No wonder you're always putting shit in your mouth, if it feels that good," he says.  
  
"Nothing else feels this good," Connor replies, and kisses him again; Hank loses track of time, after that.  
  
Eventually, Connor pushes Hank down on the couch and drapes over top of him, much like he'd been when Hank woke up that morning. His hands roam over Hank's chest while he kisses him, and Hank rests his hands low on Connor's back to keep him close. He's still hard, but the most urgent edge of arousal's faded to the back of his mind; it's a comfortable ache that's overshadowed by the immediate pleasure of having Connor in his arms.  
  
Eventually, Connor tucks himself next to Hank on the couch, with his head resting on Hank's shoulder, and wraps an arm over Hank's broad chest.  
  
"You taking a nap there, Connor?" Hank asks with a chuckle.  
  
"No, but you could, if you wanted to. I just want to stay close to you, for a while."  
  
Hank knows he'll have trouble sleeping that night if he takes a nap in the middle of the day, but how can he say no? A little sleeplessness later is a small price to pay, and it has been an exhausting day so far. He brushes Connor's hair out of the way so he can kiss his forehead.  
  
"Sure thing, boss," he says. "Don't let me sleep too long though, all right?"  
  
Hank doesn't drop into deep sleep, but he dozes off and on for a while. He's keyed up and aroused, and still a bit surprised that he'd missed what in retrospect were some obvious signs of Connor's romantic interest, but once he slows his breathing and sinks into the feeling of Connor curled up next to him, his weight on Hank's chest, his hair tickling Hank's nose when he kisses the crown of his head, he finds himself falling asleep quickly. Every few moments he comes into wakefulness just enough to be surprised again that Connor's there with him, and every time the comfort of his presence is enough to lull him back to sleep.  
  
Eventually, he wakes up to a kiss on his cheek and a hand squeezing his. "It's been an hour and a half, Hank," Connor says. "You should probably wake up now."  
  
"I'm awake," he says sleepily, as Connor climbs off of him so he can sit up. "What time is it? I'm real hungry all of a sudden."  
  
"It's past 2:00," Connor says, "so that's not surprising."  
  
"All right," Hank says. "Here's what I'm thinking."  
  
"Hm?"  
  
"I figure there's probably more stuff we need to talk about, because I don't want to fuck anything up because I should have talked about it but didn't." He takes Connor's hand and brings it to his mouth, kissing his knuckles. "But right now, honestly I just want to make a sandwich and watch some terrible tv with you the way we always do, just. Maybe with you a little closer than before," he says, patting his lap. "And we can talk the rest out later?"  
  
"That sounds perfect, Hank," Connor says, "but I do have one question that's a little time-sensitive, because I need to make a decision soon." At Hank's nod, he forges ahead. "It may have been inappropriate to try to ask indirectly, as I did earlier, but I suppose now I can be more direct: do you have any preferences or opinions you'd like me to take into consideration as I choose the genitalia I'll have installed? We could look through the available options together later tonight. If I make a decision today I can probably make an appointment for this week." He gives Hank a wink.  
  
"It just feels like a dick move, to try and influence your decision," Hank says with a grimace. "Like if I told you to dye your hair because I had a preference for a different color--which I don't, by the way, so don't get any ideas."  
  
"I don't see it that way," Connor says. "I'm not getting this done for you, I'm doing it for myself, but it seems reasonable to take your preferences into account, since there isn't anyone else I want to be sexually intimate with."  
  
Hank doesn't know what to do with that information; that simple admission, so casually stated, hits him like a punch to the gut. He kisses Connor's hand again and is rewarded with a soft, pleased sound. "I meant what I said when Lukas asked me earlier: I'm easy to please, I like all sorts of things. Big, little, I'm happy. Do you even know the basic, uh, model you're going with?  
  
"Unless you have a strong preference otherwise, I'd like to start with a phallic attachment." At Hank's blank look at "to start with," he adds, "genital components are easily switched out, once the basic framework is in place. The complicated part is installing the software and equipment that changes how I process and experience physical sensation, but that only needs to be installed once."  
  
"So you could just have a drawer full of parts to swap out?"  
  
"I'd like to eventually, yes, if that sounds good to you."  
  
Hank imagines it: a row of differently-sized and textured options that Connor could choose from, based on what he was in the mood for. Hank, blindfolded on the bed, unsure of the shape of what he'd taste when Connor straddled his shoulders and sat on his face.  
  
His dick had calmed down during his nap, but it's paying close attention to the current conversation. "Yeah, that sounds good. And starting off with a dick is, uh. Great choice."  
  
"Your face is flushed."  
  
Hank can feel it, a heated prickle washing over him. He's probably red down to his chest right now. "I'm not used to talking about this stuff. It feels weird expressing a preference at all."  
  
"I'd agree if you were trying to pressure me into choosing a certain style or size of attachment without being asked to give input. That would feel invasive and rude. But I'm asking for your thoughts not because I'll choose something exactly like what you prefer, but because if I'm stuck between two options, for example, your opinion could help sway me to one side."  
  
"Or, you could flip a coin and I'd be happy either way. I guess to me, it's like..." Hank searches for an example. "I mean, you don't know what I'm packing, right? If you told me right now you had a size preference and I knew I didn't measure up, or measured, uh, too much up, it wouldn't feel great, but--"  
  
Hank pauses, unsure how to interpret the look Connor's giving him. "What?"  
  
"I definitely know," Connor says, not making eye contact.  
  
"What?" Hank says again. He's pretty sure he'd never walked around naked where Connor could see him, or anything like that.  
  
"It was a violation of your privacy, Hank, I'm sorry," Connor says, his words tumbling out in a rush, "but I couldn't resist. I've taken scans of--of the size and shape of your penis through your clothing, at different times, and have what I think is a detailed understanding of your size in both a flaccid and erect state."  
  
"You scanned...my dick?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Multiple times."  
  
"Yes." Connor's started to look upset, so Hank wraps an arm around his shoulder and pulls him close.  
  
"Hey, it's all right. It's weird, and a violation of my privacy for sure, but. It's kind of hot, too, and I guess I'm flattered. But now you can just ask, if you want to see."  
  
"Of course I want to," Connor says. "There's so much I want that it feels like it's going to overflow and spill out of me." He presses a hand to Hank's chest and stares intently at it, as if he's trying to imagine it splayed across Hank's bare skin instead of the soft t-shirt he's wearing.  
  
"You're real pent up, huh?" Hank asks and Connor nods.  
  
"I want to wait until I have a full range of sexual sensation, and the ability to orgasm, before I explore further physical intimacy, but...being close to you makes it extremely difficult."  
  
Hank doesn't want to say it, but he thinks he understands. To have Connor right there, clearly expressing his desire...Hank's not the sort to push partners for anything they aren't ready for, but it is hard to hear Connor talking so passionately about scanning his dick (which is sounding less creepy and more hot, the more Hank thinks about it) and how deeply he _wants_ him without getting pretty worked up as well.  
  
"We waited this long," he says, "that I think we can make it a little longer. You said you could get an appointment this week?"  
  
"I think so, as long as the parts I want are in stock. Which is why," Connor says, rubbing his hand across Hank's chest and brushing a finger against his nipple in a way that feels too calculatedly casual to truly be an accident, "I'd love your input, so I can make a decision more quickly and know it'll be to your liking."  
  
"Here's an idea," Hank says, pulling Connor fully onto his lap. He kisses him, because he can't get past the fact he's free to do that now and wants to enjoy the experience as often as possible. "You have a catalog or something, right? That I could look at with you?"  
  
"I have it here," Connor says, projecting a **CYBERLIFE PLEASURE ENHANCEMENTS-FALL/WINTER 2039** catalog on his hand display. "I could download this to your tablet for easier reading."  
  
"How about you do that, and pick a bad movie to watch, while I make myself something to eat. I'll look through it with you and we can talk about what you're leaning towards, and maybe I'll give you some opinions, but the big choices are up to you, all right?"  
  
"All right," Connor says, and Hank rewards him with another kiss. He's sure he'll never get tired of kissing him. Hell, if that's all they did together he could be happy, not that he's complaining about the idea of more.  
  
"If there's something in there I absolutely can't see myself loving, I'll let you know, but there won't be. I'll love whatever you choose because it'll be yours."  
  
Connor grins and kisses him again, and Hank can't resist a beautiful man on his lap so he's waylaid for several more minutes, until his stomach growls loudly enough to startle them both.  
  
"I guess it's sandwich time," he says, and reluctantly scoots Connor off his lap.  
  
Hank whistles to himself as he makes a sandwich from the fresh rye and tomatoes he'd picked up at the market earlier. He rinses off one of the plums and sets it on the plate as well, then fishes out a bag of chips from the pantry and carries his lunch to the couch, where Connor is trying to decide between _Space Valkyries II_ and _Space Valkyries III_ as his bad movie of choice.  
  
"The third one has better special effects but worse acting," Hank offers. "They're equally bad overall, and you don't gotta pay too close attention which is what I want anyway, in case I get distracted having some pretty young thing on my lap."  
  
"I'm not sure if I like you calling me that or not," Connor says, but he looks pleased.  
  
"I figured you'd like me calling you pretty," Hank teases. "You're always trying to look good, aren't you?"  
  
Connor bites his lip. "I do like that," he admits.  
  
Hank's pretty sure Connor would be blushing if he was able to. "I'll make sure to tell you that more often," he says. "Won't be hard to remember, considering you walk around looking like...like that." He waves his hands at Connor's legs, still mostly on display thanks to those damn tiny shorts. "I guess I can admit now that I nearly had a heart attack when you came out wearing that outfit this morning."  
  
"I wanted you to," Connor says, softly. "Not have a heart attack, obviously, but I wanted you to look at me."  
  
"Now that I know that's what you want," Hank says, "I won't worry so much that I'm being a creep when I do."  
  
Hank demolishes his sandwich in a few large bites as Connor finishes his deliberation and the explosion-filled opening of Space Valkyries II fills the screen. "You want to hop up here?" he asks, patting his thighs.  
  
"It looks like the best seat in the house," Connor says smoothly, and settles himself delicately on Hank's lap. Hank rests a hand on his hip and pulls him in nice and close, and what's so fucking wonderful about the whole experience is how normal it feels; it feels right in a way that so few things have for a long time.  
  
Hank lets his attention drift a bit; it's harder to focus on the exploits of huge women punching aliens and kissing each other, as compelling as that narrative is as a general rule, when he's so aware of Connor's presence. He's offering the same commentary on continuity errors and costuming choices as he always is when they watch terrible movies, but now he's delivering those comments in a low murmur next to Hank's ear, and each one is accompanied by a handful of kisses.  
  
Hank's seen Space Valkyries II enough times that he mostly tunes it out after a while, and focuses on Connor and the thrill of having him so close. Connor starts the movie in Hank's lap, but eventually winds up stretched out on the couch with his head pillowed on Hank's thigh.  
  
Hank keeps at least one hand on Connor at all times, fingers running through his hair and trailing down his neck, or palm pressed warm and comforting between his shoulderblades. Connor sighs and hums with pleasure at every new touch and Hank can't help but wonder if he'll be this responsive in bed.  
  
It's probably good, Hank thinks idly, that Connor wants to take things slow. Anatomical issues aside--Hank doesn't particularly want to have sex with Connor now if he can't feel as much as he wants to or if, as Hank suspects, it would be all buildup for him and no release--it's been a long time since Hank's been with anyone, and a long time since he ever expected he'd have the chance, and as much as he wants so much more with Connor he also appreciates the chance to ease into everything else more gradually.  
  
He's already fallen into the trap of assuming Connor has his shit together, has more about himself and the world figured out, than he does. He's not a child, far from it, but he is still _new_ in a way Hank isn't, and hasn't had any sexual experiences, good or bad, to draw from. He's barely had a year to develop sexual thoughts or preferences at all.  
  
_I am going to have to step up my fucking game and TALK about this shit with him_ , Hank thinks, as firmly as possible. He doesn't think he's ever been a terrible partner; his marriage ended because he and Maureen weren't good for each other long term, but they hadn't been bad to each other, just incompatible. Still, though, he's never been great at talking things out, and he knows he's been worse about it (about everything) in the past few years.  
  
He won't forgive himself if he messes things up with Connor.  
  
"Hank, are you all right? Your heart rate's spiked, and the movie isn't particularly stressful at the moment." Connor reaches up to rest a hand on Hank's heart, a look of concern on his face.  
  
Hank settles his hand over Connor's, then lifts it to his mouth for a kiss. "Sorry, just got lost in thought," he says. "Gotta stop getting stuck in my own head and pay attention to the movie."  
  
"Or," Connor suggests, stretching across his lap like a spoiled cat, "you could pay attention to me instead."  
  
"Even better," Hank says, and Connor pulls him down for a kiss.

Hank feels like a horny teenager again, his whole body on fire from something as simple and delicious as kissing, as fingers tangling together, as bumping noses in a rush of excitement that overrides any thought given to how their faces need to fit together. Connor's sweet and responsive, sure (and Hank finds himself idly wondering, as Connor sighs and arches into his hand, what it'll be like when he can feel more, considering how sensitive he already is while running at what is apparently a diminished level of tactile sensitivity), but he isn't content to just lie back and take what Hank gives him. He's insistent, even a little pushy, as he climbs on Hank's lap or pulls Hank down over top of him, reveling in the solid weight of him. He nips at Hank's neck and tangles his fingers in Hank's hair and beard, pulling gently to angle his head right where he wants it.  
  
_Fuck me_ , Hank thinks, _if he's this wild in bed once he gets everything installed and upgraded, I'm not sure how I'll survive_.  
  
Finally, Connor breaks away with a strangled whine. "I didn't expect how difficult it would be," he says, in between heated kisses, as if he can't bear to keep his mouth away from Hank's for long, "when I said I wanted to take things slowly, to keep to that." He runs his hands appreciatively across Hank's chest and down his sides to grab at his hips. "Mmm. You're so enticing."  
  
"Never been called that before," Hank says, embarrassed.  
  
"That's a shame," Connor purrs. "I want to keep touching you. I'm drawn to you. I'm not sure what word would fit you better."  
  
"If you say so."  
  
"I do," Connor says, in a voice that lets Hank know he will not tolerate disagreement.  
  
"You're the boss," Hank says. "I won't argue." He reaches down to take Connor's hands in his own and gives them a little squeeze. "You want to show me your dick catalog, and take a little break from getting so worked up?"  
  
"Yes," Connor says, "but I suspect looking at potential options for new genitalia which I hope to have you touch very soon, while getting feedback based on your own sexual preferences, won't do much to calm me down."  
  
Hank sees his point, but still it seems like a good idea to let Connor cool his jets for a moment, and at least if they're looking at robo-dicks together they won't have their hands all over each other. Probably. Once Hank considers it, he's pretty sure Connor could multitask well enough to grope Hank while carrying on a conversation about the best upgrade options. It's still the right call.  
  
Hank has to cast his mind pretty far back to remember examples from his own life, but he knows it's frustrating to bump up against a boundary you set for yourself, one you know deep down you need to stick to, and want nothing else in the moment but to blast through it.  
  
If Connor were to say to him "let's figure out how good I can feel without sensory upgrades; take me to bed," he'd throw him over his shoulder and haul him there in an instant, but since he wants to wait, Hank wants to help him. "I'd like to take a look at what I might be able to get my hands on."  
  
"Or my mouth," he adds, after giving Connor one last, slow kiss, and that's enough to have Connor scrambling for the tablet he'd set aside earlier. And fuck, now that he's said it, Hank doesn't think there's anything else he wants more than that.  
  
"Do you enjoy it?" Connor asks, turning on the tablet and tucking himself under Hank's arm as he cuddles in close. "Performing oral sex on a partner?"  
  
"Yeah," Hank says, his mouth suddenly feeling very dry. "Yeah, I like that." Maybe this was a terrible idea, if he wanted them to cool things off a bit, because now he's talking to Connor about how badly he wants to suck him off. "Liking" it is an understatement. "Do you want me to?"  
  
"I do," Connor says, as he scrolls through the first pages of the catalog. "Knowing it's something you enjoy makes me want it more, I think."  
  
"There's a lot I enjoy," Hank rumbles into Connor's ear. He can't help himself. He sucks gently on Connor's earlobe and is rewarded with a soft moan and a full-body shudder. "Christ, I can't wait to see how many ways I can find to make you make that noise again."  
  
"Hank," Connor says, and it's half-whine and half-plea. He gestures with the tablet. "You can't distract me, or I'll never be able to decide."  
  
"Sorry," Hank says, and leans back so his mouth isn't so close to Connor's ear. He starts to withdraw his arm from Connor's shoulder, but Connor clamps down on his wrist and holds him there.  
  
"Stay here, just. Be less arousing."  
  
Hank would have told anyone, just a few days ago, that "unarousing" was his default state, not something he had to strive for, but he pats Connor arm and says "I'll do my best" as seriously as he can manage.  
  
"Thank you," Connor replies, just as seriously. He scrolls through the catalog for a moment before stopping on a page covered in dicks. "Do you like any of these?"  
  
It's weird for Hank to look what look like ultra-realistic dildos and think of them as potential body parts. "Do they have specs or anything?" he mumbles, and prods his finger against the first one at the top of the page, which looks comically large, if Hank's being honest. The display shifts to show a slowly-rotating 3d model next to an animation of it moving from flaccid to fully erect. A list of measurements pops up beneath the display and Hank winces. "Three inches thick..." he holds his fingers apart, speculating.  
  
"More like this," Connor says, pulling Hank's thumb and forefinger a bit farther from each other.  
  
"That might be, uh. More than I can handle without a lot of effort."  
  
"Good to know," Connor says cheerfully, and exits out of that option and back to the main page. "Do you think I should let Lukas know the answer to his question?"  
  
"I'm sure he'd love that," Hank mumbles. "Sure, knock yourself out. You get that I'm not saying no to this, though, right? If you want a dick this size, I don't want to stop you. I'm up for a challenge."  
  
"I'm sure you are," Connor says, "and I think I see the appeal, but that wasn't one I was initially drawn to." He taps on another option and its listing expands to show the same kind of models and measurements as the previous one.  
  
This dick is smaller, significantly so; Hank thinks he could pop the whole thing in his mouth with no problems. There's something appealing about the idea; being able to stuff his mouth full of Connor's cock without worrying about choking on it would be nice. "I could wrap my hand around that and cover the whole thing up," he says.  
  
"Is that a problem?"  
  
"No, no, it's kind of. Kind of hot, honestly? This is the thing, Connor, I'm going to find something to drool over no matter what you pick." He's burning with embarrassment, but he pushes on. He has to make himself talk about this shit, for Connor's sake. "You get a little dick like that, it's easy to take. I get to have fun with you right off the bat without having to work up to it. Plus, I guess I'd feel extra large in comparison, you know?" Of course Connor knows, he thinks, since he admitted to his weird-but-hot dick scans earlier.  
  
Connor nods. "Is this your preference?"  
  
Hank shakes his head. "No, the point is: I'm all for it, if you like this one. But you go a little bigger"--he finds another dick on the page, one that's not quite as large as the first one but thick enough to make his jaw ache just looking at it--"and there's...I don't know, a challenge there." Hank can feel how flushed his face is, and he's mortified, but he keeps going. "And the payoff if you can take it is. Uh." He isn't sure how to continue that thought without embarrassing himself further. "My point is, the thought of you with any of these is doing a lot for me right now. You aren't going to choose something I'll be disappointed by."  
  
"This will be the first aspect of my body I've chosen for myself," Connor says, turning off the tablet and setting it aside. He takes Hank's hand where it's draped over his shoulder, and laces their fingers together. "You were right, earlier, when you said I like to look good. I appreciate compliments on my appearance, and sometimes I want other people to notice and to enjoy looking at me. I suppose that makes me vain."  
  
"I think a little vanity is all right, in your case," Hank says.  
  
"But I was made to be attractive, Hank. I was designed in accordance with a specific idea of what attractiveness is; every decision about my appearance was made by someone else. When I admire how I look, none of that feels like a choice I made for myself. Since this is the first real decision I'm making about my body, it feels overwhelming."  
  
"I don't know," Hank says. He pats one of the pineapples on Connor's shirt. "You've made a lot of decisions about what you wear. Hell, you trashed your Cyberlife uniform before you did almost anything else, remember? You know how to dress better than I do, although I guess that's a low bar. But you let your hair get messier than you used to, and you, I don't know, you move a little differently sometimes? Looser, maybe?" He ruffles Connor's hair, as if to make a point about its messiness, and kisses his cheek. "I'm not trying to say you're wrong to feel this way, and I get that changing your body is different from changing your clothes. But I don't look at you and see a bunch of choices someone else made."  
  
Hank wraps his other arm around Connor's chest and manages to pull him in even closer. "I'm glad you have the chance to do something for yourself that's all about you, and I get that there's a part of this I won't ever understand, not completely. But however you were designed, you're your own person now, and there isn't a decision you can make here that'll undo that."  
  
"I just want to make the right choice," Connor murmurs.  
  
"I don't think you can make a wrong one, sweetheart," Hank says. The pet name slips out by accident, and Hank wonders if it's too soon or too precious but Connor shoots him a soft, sweet smile that tells him he likes it just fine.  
  
Hank reaches for the tablet and thumbs it on again. "You want to look through the rest of these?"  
  
"Sure," Connor says. "Thanks, Hank. My emotional response to making this decision is more complicated than I initially expected it to be."  
  
"It's a big change for you, so complicated makes sense."  
  
There are several more pages in the "phallic attachment" section of the catalog, and Hank finds himself thinking about the wide array of dick shapes and sizes more than he has in a long time. He makes some general noises of interest for most of them (he hadn't been lying when he told Connor he'd be happy with pretty much anything), but he figures Connor's probably monitoring his pulse or heartrate or something and will notice if it jumps at all when he sees one he particularly likes. It's hard not to let his mind drift to thoughts of what he and Connor might get up to once he's had his upgrade procedure, but Hank tries to rein himself in. _Later_ , he tells himself.  
  
After a few more pages that display the various models Connor can choose from, they reach a page full of specs for the upgrade that allows for orgasm and enhanced tactile sensitivity. "This makes no sense to me, but I assume you understand it?" Hank asks.  
  
"It's pretty straightforward," Connor replies. Hank snorts and rolls his eyes, but Connor continues. "It may be slightly more complicated in my case, since I do have some sensory capabilities other models do not, but I have similar restrictions in place that keep me from feeling physical pleasure the same way you do; this procedure removes those restrictions and adds additional software and hardware to allow my sexual response to be more similar to what humans experience."  
  
Hank doesn't entirely understand how it works, still, but the general idea makes sense, at least. "What does it feel like now, when I touch you?"  
  
Connor considers the question for a moment. "I suppose it's difficult for either of us to explain to the other what something as basic as touch feels like. When you touch me, I feel warmth and pressure, and the texture of your skin against mine. It's pleasurable because having you close to me and touching me is pleasurable. My mouth and fingertips are much more sensitive than the rest of my body, though." He tilts his head towards Hank, silently requesting a kiss, and moans when Hank rewards him with one. "My mouth," he says, when he pulls away, "is so sensitive that I'm inundated with information when I kiss you. There's just so much of you inside me."  
  
"Fuck," Hank says, and kisses Connor again. "You can't just say things like that."  
  
"It's true, though," Connor says. "It feels like I'm drowning in you." He nuzzles into Hank's neck and gives it a lick. "I think about tasting more of you, and the thought alone is an erotic experience."  
  
Hank thinks about it too, and feels his face flush again. "I can't disagree with that." He rubs a hand down Connor's back, and he melts more completely into him in response. "You thought you could get an appointment for all these upgrades soon if you made a decision, right?"  
  
"I checked a moment ago, actually; there's a free appointment Friday afternoon. If I can take a half day from work I could take care of the installation then; it would take several hours but I'd be home later that night."  
  
"Well, shit," Hank says. "Do you know what you want?"  
  
"I've decided, yes." Connor reaches for the tablet again, to show Hank his choice, but Hank takes his hand and brings it to his mouth for a kiss, instead.  
  
"Surprise me?" He asks. "I think I'd like to find out when I see you, after. Whenever you're ready."  
  
"Of course." Connor looks pleased by the request. "If you think the time off would be approved, I'll go ahead and confirm the appointment now."  
  
"You haven't missed a day since you started, I'm sure you could take the whole day off if you wanted to. Go ahead, and if anyone gives you crap for it, I'll make a fuss about it."  
  
"Don't yell at anyone on my account. I'm sure you're right and it will be easy to take that time off." He's quiet for a moment, LED flashing furiously as he contacts the upgrade facility. "There, I've secured my appointment time and submitted a request for time off as well."  
  
"How are you feeling? Excited?"  
  
"I've been excited since you started kissing me," Connor admits. "But yes, I'm glad I was able to make a firm decision."  
  
"I'm happy for you," Hank says, "and, yeah, excited too, but I want to make sure I'm not making it sound like I expect anything from you right off the bat. I mean, I don't have an expectation at all, no matter what parts you have, 's not like you owe me sex or anything, but what I'm saying is that you should take your time, once all this new stuff is in place, if you need it. If you want to spend a while just, uh, figuring out how things work, don't rush yourself, you know?"  
  
"What if what I want," Connor says, "is to come home on Friday, drag you into the bedroom"--he grabs the collar of Hank's shirt to demonstrate--"and keep you there all weekend, while we figure out how everything works, together?"  
  
Hank dedicates a small thank you, deep in his heart, to whatever power in the universe brought him together with what has to be the horniest goddamn android in existence.  
  
"That sounds perfect, sweetheart," he says.  
  
The rest of the afternoon passes in a strange mix of the new and the familiar. Hank lounges on the couch flipping through an old paperback while Connor works on his sweater in preparation for his knitting circle the next day: that's a normal Saturday afternoon for them.  
  
What's new is that Connor stretches out and settles his legs over Hank's lap as he works, so Hank can rest a hand on his calf and smooth his fingers down to his ankle and back while he reads. It's hard to stay focused on his book, but that's all right; Hank's read it several times, and he's happy to let his eyes drift over the page as he feels the softness of Connor's skin and the give of his synthetic muscle, just firm enough to feel a little strange, under his hand.  
  
He hears the occasional sigh from Connor, when he touches a particularly sensitive spot, but doesn't catch him watching when he glances over at him; mostly he's focused on whatever complicated pattern he's working into the slowly-growing sweater. There's a short, curved needle involved, somehow, but Hank has no idea what it's for.  
  
Hank thinks about the idle domestic fantasies he's had over the past few days, of sharing space with Connor like this, having him close in a quiet moment, and can't help but shake his head and huff out a breath of air that's almost a laugh.  
  
This time, Connor does look up from his work at him, with a look of such fondness that Hank hardly knows what to do with himself. This entire situation is going to take time to fully adjust to, he's pretty sure.  
  
"Something funny?" Connor asks.  
  
"No, I just." Hank sets his book aside and sets both hands on Connor's beautiful bare legs. "It's a little unreal, I guess, being with you like this. Yesterday this was something I felt guilty thinking about, you know? And now you're in my lap." He rubs a hand up Connor's leg and brushes his thumb over that tantalizing mole on his inner thigh. "Maybe I'm dreaming again."  
  
"You dreamed about me?" Connor asks, raising an eyebrow.  
  
"I did."  
  
Connor slides his leg across Hank's lap. "Would you tell me about it?"  
  
"I thought we were trying not to get each other worked up too much," Hank protests, weakly. "I don't remember that many details, beyond you."  
  
"What else _do_ you remember?" Connor has his legs crossed on top of Hank's thighs, now, resting close to where his dick's already half-hard but not close enough to touch. He's pretty sure that's not an accident, that every way Connor's touched him today has been deliberate.  
  
He allows himself, for just a second, to think about that deliberation and precision aimed in his direction when they take things further.  
  
"Not a lot," Hank says, slowly. He tries to pull together the vague threads of the dream he can remember, but it's less clear now than it had been when he first woke from it, and it was already a blur then. "You were eating plums."  
Connor nods at the pit of the plum Hank had eaten for lunch, discarded amidst sandwich crumbs on a plate on the side table. "Like that one?"  
  
Hank nods. "That's why I got kinda weird when you asked if I wanted any, earlier."  
  
Connor smiles, a little sharp-edged. Predatory. "It couldn't have just been a dream about me eating, for you to react like that."  
  
Hank blushes. He feels the heat of it rush from his scalp down to the base of his throat. "I don't remember the details, but I was kneeling. In front of you. You were saying something, and my alarm went off."  
  
"I can work with that," Connor says, looking thoughtful. "If you'd like."  
  
"I don't--I'm not--" Hank cuts himself off, because clearly he does, and he is. "You were pulling my hair," he mumbles.  
  
Connor swings his legs off of Hank's lap and scoots closer, until he's right beside him. "Like this?" he asks, and slides his hand into the hair at the base of Hank's neck before curling his fingers through a handful and holding it tight.  
  
Hank makes a thoroughly embarrassing sound, a kind of whine-inflected moan, and digs his fingers into his thighs. "Yeah, that's. That's it," he says.  
  
Connor tugs gently, just enough to tilt Hank's head to the side so he can kiss his neck. "I enjoy this," he says. "Is there anything else you want to tell me about?"  
  
"I don't remember the rest," Hank says, because he doesn't, but also because it's hard to think at all when Connor has such a tight grip on him. He hasn't felt like this in such a long time.  
  
"Not just your dream," Connor says, in between further kisses. "I should know what you're interested in sexually, shouldn't I?"  
  
"I'm interested in you, more than anything in particular," Hank says, but the look Connor gives him makes it clear he can't duck the question that easily. "Might be easier to talk about once you get all your new stuff put in, so we can learn as we go, you know?"  
  
"You don't want to talk about this."  
  
Hank shakes his head, a challenge when Connor still has his fist in his hair. "Just for now," he says. "When you can feel everything I want to do with you, that's when I want to talk about it. Plus you wanted me to keep from getting you too riled up, remember?"  
  
"You aren't doing a good job of it," Connor says, pouting.  
  
"And telling you I want to choke on your dick the moment you come home with it isn't going to help any, right?"  
  
"Ah," Connor says. His LED flutters yellow. "I see your point. But I want to know, eventually."  
  
Connor loosens his grip in Hank's hair, but keeps his hand on the back of his neck, gently rubbing against the fine hairs there. "I feel--I hope, at least--that I know how to be a friend to you. I know how to share your living space. But I don't know what you want from a romantic or sexual partner, and I worry that my inexperience will be frustrating. You can draw on your history with others, but I have nothing."  
  
Hank leans into Connor's touch and rests a hand on his leg in an attempt to be reassuring. "You know some of my history's pretty rough, right? My ex-wife is my ex for a reason. We didn't exactly bring out the best in each other." He sighs. "I didn't expect I'd get the chance to have a relationship again, to be honest. I'm not much of a catch, Connor."  
  
"Don't talk about yourself like that," Connor says sharply.  
  
"Sorry," Hank says, but he doesn't know how else to respond. He doesn't know another way to feel about himself, or about what he deserves. Maybe that will change, over time.  
  
Hank feels, very suddenly, the deep exhaustion of a man who's ridden an emotional roller coaster all day. All week, really. He's happy now, of course, but he'd made Connor cry, earlier, and he's still wrapping his mind around the fact that Connor wants to be with him, wants a relationship, at all. Perhaps, he thinks, Connor's feeling exhausted as well. He has less experience with emotional turmoil, even though the last year's shown him plenty of it.  
  
He wraps his arm around Connor and pulls him in close. "It's been a big day, huh?"  
  
Connor nods, nuzzling into Hank's shoulder.  
  
"How about this," Hank suggests. "It's late enough that it won't be unbearable outside, so let's take Sumo on a nice, long walk. We can talk out there, if you want, or we can just tire ourselves out a little and pick things up when we get home."  
  
Sumo perks up at the mention of his name and the extremely exciting word "walk" and trots over to where his leash hangs on the wall.  
  
"Okay, I have Sumo on board with this plan. What do you think?" Hank kisses Connor on the forehead. It feels so good to think about kissing Connor and actually kiss him, instead of reminding himself that he can't, that he does it again. He can't help himself.  
  
"A walk sounds perfect," Connor says, and Hank feels some tension drain out of him as he leans into Hank's chest. Maybe he's not the only one sagging a bit under the emotional weight of the day. "Let's just spend this time together, however we want, and we can return to our discussion another time. Tomorrow, if you like."  
  
"This house is officially a serious-discussion-free-zone for the rest of the night," Hank says. "I'd ask you to shake on it, but instead--" he kisses Connor's hand and is rewarded with the sight of his lips parting gently in response. A ghost of a smile flits across his lips.  
  
"Let's go, then," Connor says.  
  
The sun hasn't quite yet, but it's still cooler in the early evening than it has been all week, and Hank breathes a sigh of relief when he steps outside. He's sure it'll heat up again in a day or two, but the brief respite from the worst of the heat is still welcome.  
  
Hank feels a pang of awkwardness, as they set off; he isn't sure what to do with himself, or how close Connor wants him to be. He thinks back to this morning when he pressed his hand to Connor's back, steering him through the crowded market, and about Connor's arm hooked through his, and he wants to touch him again like that, but something about stepping outside of their house, outside of the part of the world that's just for them, makes him hesitate. Maybe the rules are different, now.  
  
Happily, Connor seems to feel no such hesitation. They haven't made it halfway down the block before Connor slips his arm through Hank's, the way he had earlier, and it feels just as comfortable and right as it had then, but Hank's less baffled by the whole thing this time.  
  
He's still baffled, to some extent, that Connor feels the way he does. A small, angry part of him warns that Connor doesn't mean it, that he's confused, that he'll grow tired of Hank's bullshit before long. And fuck, maybe one of these things is true. Maybe they all are. But he wants, so badly, for none of them to be true, for Connor to (confusingly, irrationally) have the same desire for Hank that he does for Connor, and he knows the meanest bits of himself are usually full of shit. He holds that thought in his mind for a moment, while Connor squeezes his arm and tells him about what his book club is reading.  
  
_Your worst self is a liar_ , he thinks. _You trust Connor._  
  
Turns out, the book in question, an older novel Hank vaguely remembers hearing about a decade or two back but never read, sounds pretty engaging; he happily listens to Connor's narration of complex political maneuvers and backstabbing while only getting somewhat distracted by how lovely his face looks in the low light when he's so animated and cheerful. It feels good to admire Connor without feeling like he has to hide it.  
  
The first time Hank spots a neighbor coming their way, he feels Connor's hand flex and shift on his arm, as if he's considering letting go. "You all right?" he asks, slipping Sumo's leash over his wrist and covering Connor's hand on his arm with his own. Maybe Connor doesn't want to be the subject of neighborhood gossip by publicly being in a relationship with Hank? He brushes his thumb over Connor's knuckles, not trying to hold him there, but offering extra reassurance if it's needed.  
  
"Of course," Connor says. "It's so nice to be somewhere with you where other people can see this." He squeezes Hank's arm. "That I'm with you."  
  
"Oh," Hank says, quietly. Connor hadn't been worried about someone else seeing them together at all. "It's been a while since anyone's been excited to be seen with me." He stops to let Sumo snuffle at a hedge along the sidewalk, and puts his hand on Connor's hip to pull him in close. He lets his hand rest on the small of Connor's back and waves at his neighbor with the other as she jogs by. Hank thinks he might see a raised eyebrow at their closeness, but he can't be sure; what he is sure of, though, is that he doesn't give a shit if there's neighborhood gossip or the occasional weird look. If Connor isn't bothered by it, he won't be either. He's far more protective of Connor's feelings than he is of his own.  
  
"I certainly am," Connor says, as they continue walking. "Excited to be seen with you, I mean. I like to think about going places together and kissing you, or having your arm around me, so that when other people see us, they know that you want to be with me. That you've chosen me."  
  
Hank feels less like he'd chosen Connor and more like he'd had no choice _but_ to fall for him. He had made space for Connor in his life because not doing so was unthinkable; once Hank knew he wanted him around, he couldn't imagine wanting anyone else. The choice was so easy, Hank hardly knew he was making it.  
  
"We can do that," Hank says. He slings his arm over Connor's shoulder and smiles when Connor's hand lands low on his back in response. It's maybe not the most convenient way to walk, when Hank's wrangling a large and stubborn dog with the other hand, but he doesn't mind.  
  
"Anywhere in particular you want to go together?"  
  
"Some of what I imagined was a bit impractical," Connor admits. "I realize that you kissing me in front of everyone at the annual DPD fundraising banquet would be improper, but I have thought about it often."  
  
"That's awfully specific," Hank says. "Didn't you hate that banquet?" Hank's memory of the fundraising event, which had been in April, was that he was sweating in his nearly-too-small dress uniform and wishing the open bar had something more appealing than boxed wine and a shitty IPA, plus Connor had been twitchy and anxious about it being the department's first big event since he and other androids had been formally hired. Connor had been mentioned as a "shining example" of an android employee in a way he'd found both condescending and alarming; no one had warned him it would happen and the sudden attention of several hundred partygoers proved too much for him.  
  
"I did, but the upside was that I was able to see you in your dress uniform," Connor says. "I thought you looked very attractive."  
  
"Huh. I felt like a sausage stuffed into that thing, but hey, if you're into it..."  
  
"I am," Connor says, in a tone of voice that makes it clear he will accept no argument.  
  
"You're right that I can't get handsy with you at a work event, or at work at all, really. But if you, uh." He trails off, feeling silly, but continues when Connor nudges him and makes an encouraging noise. "I can just drag it out of the closet sometime and kiss you at home. If you want me to. It's. It's fine, if you don't."  
  
Connor hums like he's thinking it over, and slides his hand down from Hank's back to his ass, where he gives it a squeeze and a little swat, not hard enough to sting but enough to make Hank think about him smacking even harder. "Let's revisit that idea after this Friday, perhaps. Once we've broken everything in."  
  
"That's a hell of a way to put it," Hank manages to say, his mind suddenly filled with a rush of very specific examples of what, precisely, one might qualify as "breaking in" a new set of genitals. "But yeah, sure. You just let me know."  
  
They're nearly home, now; when they turn the corner onto their street, Sumo can tell they're close and pulls harder on the leash, ready to be back in the land of air conditioning.  
  
Connor reaches the steps first, and Hank thinks about how he'd looked, just a few days ago, backlit by the light in the house as he cupped Hank's face in his hand and...well, and confused the hell out of him.  
  
"Hold up," he says, before Connor can follow Sumo into the house. Connor stands in the doorway, waiting.  
  
Hank takes Connor's hand and kisses the palm before bringing it to his cheek. "I thought, for a moment, that you were going to kiss me," he says. He isn't sure if Connor will know what he's talking about, if the memory stands out as clearly for him as it does for Hank, but Connor nods in understanding  
  
"I wanted to. I thought about it, once you went to bed. I let myself imagine what it would have felt like, if I had." Connor applies the tiniest bit of pressure, tilts Hank's head just so, and leans in. "Now I don't need to imagine it," he murmurs against Hank's mouth. "I can just kiss you."  
  
"Any time you want," Hank says, when Connor pulls away. "This kissing booth's always open, as far as you're concerned."  
  
Hank figures once he sits down he won't want to get up again for a while, so he rummages in the fridge for some leftovers and parks his ass next to Connor on the couch for the rest of the evening. They settle back into their comfortable groove from earlier, with Connor knitting and Hank either reading or half-watching tv while he pets Connor's feet propped in his lap. It still feels unreal, but the thought that this might eventually feel like a normal part of his life, that kissing Connor and cuddling up with him will just be part of the flow of every day, helps ground him in the moment. He wants to pay attention and let himself experience it instead of getting caught up in confusion about why it's happening or whether he deserves it.  
  
He watches Connor knit for a little while; he can't quite understand how the swift movements of his hands created the few inches of fabric hanging from the needles, but it's interesting to watch.  
  
"How far along on that are you supposed to be for your meeting tomorrow?" he asks, after watching in silence for a few minutes.  
  
"We haven't set specific deadlines for this project," Connor says, "but for this first meeting in particular, the goal was for everyone to get started so that if we have questions about the pattern or the first steps, we'll be able to problem-solve the issue together. I'm the least experienced knitter who attends regularly, but I'm one of several members who haven't knitted a sweater before. It's a project that requires more precision than a blanket, so some people never attempt clothing at all."  
  
"Because you're fitting it to someone, I assume?"  
  
"Yes. Most patterns can be customized to the wearer's measurements, but not everyone knows the measurements of the person they're making a garment for, or has the skills to adjust a pattern accordingly."  
  
"I guess you know your own measurements pretty well," Hank says, "and it isn't like your size will change. That has to make it easier."  
  
"True," Connor says, "plus my scanning capabilities mean I could easily take someone's measurements with a great deal of accuracy."  
  
"Yeah, you told me all about what kind of 'measurements' you can take," Hank grumbles.  
  
Connor winces. "I really am sorry about that," he says, but Hank laughs and waves him off.  
  
"I'm not mad, Connor. It's kind of embarrassing, I guess, but..." he shrugs.  
  
"You have nothing to be embarrassed about," Connor blurts out, and he's so earnest Hank can't help but laugh.  
  
"Is that so?" he asks. Hank wonders what it looks like when Connor scans him. He could be doing it right now. "You liked what you saw?"  
  
"You know I did," Connor says. It's his turn to be embarrassed.  
  
"Maybe it'll be even better up close," Hank says, and he's pretty sure that if Connor had the capability for it, he'd be blushing.  
  
"I'm sure," Connor says primly, but while he turns his attention back to his knitting, he kneads Hank's thighs with his feet and shivers with pleasure when Hank picks one up and kisses his ankle. _I'll just file that bit of information away for later_ , Hank thinks, as he returns to his book.  
  
Hank finds himself getting tired earlier than normal, but considering how much had happened that day, and the fact that he'd slept neither long enough nor in his actual bed the night before, he isn't too surprised when he has the urge to turn in early. Despite that, though, he hesitates; he isn't sure what to say to Connor. If things changing between them means this should change as well.  
  
Should he invite Connor to bed with him? Would Connor want to stay with him while he slept? Hank knows he doesn't need to enter stasis as much as humans need to sleep; from what he can tell, he zones out for a few hours most nights and enters stasis all night once or twice a month.  
  
Hank wonders, briefly, if Connor would be bored lying awake beside him all night, but then he figures the guy who made multiple detailed scans of his cock through his sweatpants would probably just love to stare and monitor his breathing all night. Hank's pretty used to Connor doing things he thinks are weird; now he just has to include some more personal things in that category as well.  
  
But if he asks, and it's too soon, or too much--  
  
Hank's exhausted overthinking is interrupted by a yawn so huge his jaw pops. Connor looks up from his knitting with concern on his face.  
  
"Are you tired?" he asks. "It isn't late, but..." he gestures at the two of them. "It has been an eventful day."  
  
"Yeah," Hank says, stifling another yawn. "I think the part where I slept on the couch instead of a bed is catching up to me, plus, you know. Everything else."  
  
Connor lifts his legs off Hank's lap and sets his knitting aside. "I always liked the thought of asking for a goodnight kiss," he says.  
  
"I like the thought of giving you one," Hank says, and then barrels forward before he can second-guess himself. "Do you want to maybe come get that kiss in bed? And stay with me tonight, if you want? Only if that's not too much, or--"  
  
"Hank," Connor says, "of course I'd love to come to bed with you. I wasn't sure if you'd want me to, or if you wanted some privacy."  
  
"I want you there," Hank says, and as he stands up the full weight of his exhaustion lands on his chest. "Fuck, I really am tired." He whistles for Sumo, so he can let him out in the yard to do his business, but Connor pushes him towards the bathroom.  
  
"I'll take care of him and meet you in your room," he says, as he walks Sumo to the door, and Hank doesn't have the energy or inclination to argue.  
  
He brushes his teeth and rinses his face off; he decides to shower in the morning instead of prolonging sleep any longer. He pulls on his oldest, softest boxers and a threadbare undershirt to sleep in, then digs around in his drawers until he finds an old shirt and pair of pajama pants that don't fit him anymore. Connor'll swim in them, most likely, but they'll do. He doesn't think Connor owns anything that quite approaches pajamas and it doesn't seem right to have him in bed wearing regular clothes, even if he'd probably be comfortable either way.  
  
He's already in bed when Connor appears in the doorway, but he hasn't closed his eyes yet; he wants to watch Connor come into his room. Make it something he can call "our room," in the future, not just his.  
  
A shared, private space.  
  
"I set out some clothes for you, if you want to get comfy," he says, when Connor steps inside the room. "I know you don't sleep like I do but it's too weird to have you in bed with all that on, and I thought you might like it."  
  
"I do, thank you," Connor says. He doesn't turn around or leave the room to change, but he doesn't make a show of it either; Hank wonders for a moment if he should turn away, but Connor sees him watching and doesn't react so he lets himself look.  
  
The light's low in the bedroom, so Connor's body is visible only dimly, half-shadowed, but the brief sight Hank has of his chest, before he pulls on the too-large t-shirt, is breathtaking. Hank remembers what Connor said about being designed to be attractive, knows Connor has some internal conflict about the nature of that design and his own need to be desired. He doesn't want to misstep, to compliment him on the wrong thing, but oh, he is beautiful. Just as he was intended to be, of course, but the difference between Connor and an exquisitely designed mannequin is the life that moves the body someone else created.  
  
"Looks good on you," he says softly.  
  
"Does it?" Connor asks, not like he's fishing for compliments but seeming genuinely confused, as he pulls on the pants and ties the drawstring tight to prevent them from immediately falling off again. "I feel comfortable, but not particularly attractive."  
  
"I don't think I could find you unattractive," Hank says, "but you look comfy, which is good. Plus you look like you're about to climb in here with me, which is even better."  
  
Connor switches off the light and slips between the sheets, resting his head on the pillow next to Hank's. "I like that I'm wearing something of yours," he says. Hank turns to face him and sees the gentle blue glow of his LED, surprisingly bright in the dark room.  
  
"It's yours, now," Hank says. "We can get you proper pjs later, if you want to keep sleeping here with me. Or stasis-ing, or whatever." He rolls over and takes Connor's hand. "You want to scooch a little closer? Or is that better for you, over there?"  
  
"I wasn't sure what you preferred," Connor says. "I didn't want to presume."  
  
"What I prefer," Hank says, because he's tired and his brain-to-mouth filter never runs well at times like these, "is for you to come be the little spoon and let me hold you."  
  
Connor immediately rolls over and lets Hank draw him close. He takes Hank's hand where he's draped it over his chest and kisses it. "This is what I wanted," he says. "To be right here."  
  
Hank reaches for something to say, some way to express how glad he is that he and Connor both want this, but now that he's in bed his body is determined to sink into sleep as quickly as possible. "Good," he manages to mumble. He can say the rest later.  
  
This close to Connor, in the dark quiet of the room, he can just barely hear the hum and pulse of Connor's biocomponents within his chest. It's a faint sound, but it's comforting all the same, enough to help quiet Hank's overcrowded mind and lull him into a deep, much-needed sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

It's been years since Hank's had someone in his bed, and longer since he's slept so closely wrapped around someone else. Even when things were going well with his ex-wife, they'd always gone for a cuddle when they first got in bed before rolling apart to sleep. Hank had sometimes found it hard to drift off when someone was touching him, no matter how much he enjoyed the touching itself; the feel of someone else's body would prod his mind into wakefulness too often.  
  
He isn't sure if it's due to his physical and mental exhaustion or just the fact that it's Connor, specifically, in his arms, but Hank sleeps better that night than he has in years. His dreams are restful but abstract: he rides a train past a field of fruit trees in bloom and while he's alone in the train car, and perhaps is the only passenger on the entire train, he knows Connor's waiting at the next stop. He doesn't see him before the dream ends, but that quiet certainty lingers as he slowly surfaces into wakefulness.  
  
When he opens his eyes, Hank sees Connor watching him, head pillowed on Hank's chest. His hair is slightly askew, more than Hank's ever seen it before, and he can't help but reach out and tousle it a little more. "Bedhead's a good look for you," he says, his voice still rough from sleep. He pictures his own hair as an unruly tangle across the pillow and wishes he could look as good for Connor as he does all the time, seemingly without effort. Hank feels like a mess next to Connor as a rule, but he's now very aware of his morning breath and wild hair and his too-tight, ancient clothes in comparison to Connor's artfully sexy dishevelment.  
  
"I, uh, may not be the prettiest sight first thing in the morning," he mumbles. "Let me get cleaned up for you, hm?  
  
"No," Connor says, draping himself completely over Hank's torso. "We should stay in bed all morning. And don't say you're not pretty."  
  
"That's not a word anyone's used to describe me, even at my best," Hank protests.  
  
"Handsome," Connor offers, his mouth inches away from Hank's, and Hank still wants to disagree, but when Connor kisses him he is swiftly reminded that there are far better uses for his time than arguing.  
  
Kissing on the couch, even with Connor sprawled out over him as he is now, had been wonderful, but on a bed, where they have room to shift and stretch out and lie side by side while they kiss and touch and laugh a little, when their noses bump or Connor gets Hank's hair in his mouth, it's all so much better. It's an incredible luxury to spend the first hour he's awake sleepily making out with Connor and reminding himself that everything he remembers from the day before was real. He doesn't feel like he deserves it, any of what Connor's offering him, but he tries to give himself permission to enjoy it, at least.  
  
And hell, enjoyable is a bit of an understatement. It had been easy, for a long time, to tell himself he didn't miss intimacy all that much, when there was no one in particular for him to want, or when he barely thought enough of himself to imagine anyone might be willing to touch him again. It felt foolish to spend energy wanting something he figured he'd never get the chance to have.  
  
But now, with Connor so close and so sweet, kissing his neck along the edge of his beard and humming appreciatively nuzzles into his chest, he wonders how he ever thought he was okay without being intimate with someone like this. Or how he convinced himself it didn't matter if he was okay with it or not, because he wouldn't find it.  
  
"Having a good time, there?" he asks, both to keep himself from following that train of thought too far and because Connor hasn't stopped nuzzling his chest.  
  
"Yes," Connor says, voice muffled by Hank's shirt. "I'm comfortable."  
  
"You had your face in there yesterday morning too," Hank says.  
  
"I like it here," Connor replies. He looks up suddenly, a wicked gleam in his eye.  
  
"Hank," he asks sweetly, "would you say your nipples are particularly sensitive?" His finger traces a wide circle on Hank's chest, nowhere near either nipple but just close enough that Hank can imagine what it might feel like if that circle closed down a few inches. If Connor were to pinch gently through his shirt or if he bit down just a little--  
  
Hank's been doing his best to follow Connor's lead, so far, since he knows he wants to take things slow; their kisses have been far from chaste, but they haven't ventured lower than either of their necks, and even though Hank's pretty sure bite marks wouldn't show up on Connor he hasn't tested that theory. Hank has put a lot of effort into not grinding his morning wood into Connor's thigh, as sorely tempted as he is. He wants to do this right. He knows he can keep himself under control.  
  
But the sly twist of Connor's smile and the thought of him reaching under his shirt to pull and twist and _lick_ at Hank's nipples has him desperately, achingly hard. He sees the moment Connor realizes how his question's landed, and the curious curve of his brow as he waits for an answer.  
  
"You could say that, I guess," Hank offers. He had a partner in college look at him a little funny when she realized just how sensitive he was, more than she was for sure, and he'd always been a little self-conscious about it after that. It wasn't a big deal, but he didn't tend to let on just how good it felt to have someone mess around with his chest.  
  
"Hmm," Connor says. The circle tightens down and Hank takes a sharp, surprised breath. "Just a little, then? Not too much?"  
  
"Connor," Hank groans.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"More than--fuck--more than a little."  
  
Connor watches Hank's face intently as his finger skirts closer while tracing that perfect circle. "I like the thought of that," he says. "I'm not sure why."  
  
"Connor, if you keep going I'm gonna start humping your leg," Hank manages to say. "'More than a little' is an understatement."  
  
Holding Hank's gaze, Connor slowly and deliberately rubs the pad of his thumb over Hank's right nipple. He watches as Hank's whole torso twitches and he rocks his hips forward to seek friction against Connor's thigh.  
  
"Oh," Connor says, eyes wide. "This is important information."  
  
Hank wonders if he's making some sort of internal checklist of things that he's figured out Hank likes. He's about to ask when there's a scratch at the door, followed by a low whine. "Aw shit," he says. "How late is it? Poor guy needs to go out, I bet."  
  
"It's nearly 10:30," Connor says. He places his hand flat on Hank's chest, safely away from any areas that might make his dick explode, and leans in to kiss him tenderly before rolling out of bed. "I can let him out in the yard."  
  
"Thanks," Hank calls after him, and while he's still feeling a little lazy and likes the thought of spending the rest of the day wrapped up in bed with Connor, he knows they both have things to do. Plus he could use some coffee. He gives his cock a squeeze and tells himself he'll take care of it later. When he has some time to himself.  
  
Connor's in charge of bringing a snack to his knitting group this week; he's decided to bake chocolate chip cookies, so as soon as he lets Sumo in he starts gathering ingredients so they'll have time to bake and cool before he needs to leave. Hank pours himself a second cup of coffee and settles in at the kitchen table to keep him company.  
  
Connor is still fairly new to baking; he's only made a few things before, and not all of them have turned out well. It's hard to make adjustments on the fly when you can't taste the thing you're making; Connor can analyze cookie dough, of course, but it doesn't mean he'll know if it needs more vanilla extract or not. Hank's of the opinion that you can always add more vanilla, but Connor isn't so sure.  
  
Hank likes to watch Connor when he's absorbed in something. He's lovely to watch at any time, of course, but Hank enjoys how intently he focuses on the task at hand. He talks to himself, occasionally; he didn't use to, Hank is pretty sure, but he's noticed it every so often, lately. It's cute.  
  
"You're cute," he says, as Connor stirs the eggs into the dough. Why not? He can just say shit like this now, so he may as well.  
  
"Is baking especially cute, to you?" Connor asks.  
  
"Nah, just you." Hank winks at him. His wink's a little rusty, but hopefully he can give it a workout and it'll get in shape soon.  
  
Connor stops stirring. "How can I get anything done," he says, "when you're right there and I know I could be kissing you instead?"  
  
"You could be," Hank says. He scoots his chair back and pats his lap. "I got plenty of room for you, right here."  
  
Connor determinedly turns back to his bowl. "I can't let myself get distracted," he says. "As much as I might want to." He adds a cup of flour, stirring faster.  
  
"I'll leave you be, if that's easier," Hank says, standing. "I just like watching you work." He leans in on his way out of the kitchen and kisses the back of Connor's neck.  
  
"You don't have to," Connor protests, but Hank waves him off.  
  
"I can watch you from in here, too," he says, as he settles himself on the couch so he can peer over the back and keep an eye on Connor if he wants. He picks up his book and flips it open, but as much as he enjoys it, Connor's more interesting right now. "Maybe I'll be less distracting this way."  
  
He must be, because Connor manages to finish assembling the dough in just a few more minutes. He insists on chilling it before it goes into the oven, a practice Hank has never heard of but which is, according to Connor, "proper cookie procedure," whatever that means, so he tidies up the kitchen over Hank's protests and changes out of his borrowed pajamas while the bowl rests in the fridge.  
  
"Where should I put these?" Connor asks, pajamas in hand, once he's dressed. He's folded them neatly, of course; Hank's pretty sure they've never been folded like that since he got them.  
  
"Uh, wherever you want? They're yours now, if you want to keep spending the night with me you can just chuck 'em on the bed like I do, or put them in with your other clothes if you can't bear to be that messy." He knows Connor isn't going to store clothing in a pile on the bed, no matter how old and wrinkly it is, but it's fun to suggest it just to see the little frown he makes at the very idea that he'd be so careless.  
  
"You don't mind me wearing them?"  
  
"Hell no, I don't mind. It's nice to see you in my old clothes, you know? You should order something new to sleep in if you want, but you can keep those if you like them."  
  
"I don't need anything new," Connor says, cradling Hank's ancient pajama pants as if they're as precious as a fine silk robe. "I like how these feel on me." He gently bites his lip, and Hank gets the feeling there's more to it than that.  
  
"Do you like wearing something of mine as much as I like seeing you in it?" he asks. Connor nods. Hank thinks, briefly, of buying something for Connor to wear to bed anyway. He imagines tight, lacy briefs leaving little to the imagination. A sheer, gauzy robe like the one Connor wore in his dream. He'd enjoy seeing Connor in those just as much as he does in his soft, worn-in pajamas.  
  
That's maybe an idea for later, though, he thinks. He doesn't need to be buying Connor lingerie right out of the gate, right? Or...  
  
He looks at the vase of dahlias on the table, still lovely and fresh. Connor deserves flowers, and lacy underwear, and anything else Hank can give him, doesn't he?  
  
Hank takes a moment, as Connor squirrels the folded pajamas away into a drawer and returns to his cookies, to imagine the sweet little gifts he'd love to shower him with, given infinite resources. He couldn't bring him chocolates, of course, but maybe he could buy more flowers on a regular basis. He imagines Connor surrounded by orchids, which turns into Connor in a deep, luxurious bath with rose petals covering the surface of the water, which leads to Connor stepping out of the tub into a candle-lit room, water streaming down the lovely planes and soft curves of his body as--  
  
"Would you like some?" Connor says, approaching him with a spoon in his hand.  
  
"Huh?" Hank replies eloquently, still caught up in visions of Connor draped in pearls.  
  
"You shouldn't eat raw cookie dough," Connor says, "but I suspect if I didn't offer you some, you'd just sneak a bite anyway."  
  
"Of course I would," Hank grumbles. "You can't have cookie dough around and expect me not to eat any." He looks at the large wooden spoon Connor's extending towards his mouth and shakes his head. "Spoon's too big."  
  
"You don't have to fit the entire thing in your mouth," Connor says, confused. "It's fine."  
  
"Nope," Hank says. He rubs his hands on his thighs. "No way it'll fit. You got something smaller?" He wiggles his fingers.  
  
Comprehension dawns on Connor's face. "Oh," he says, "I suppose I do." He scoops up a small bit of dough with his first two fingers and slides them into Hank's mouth.  
  
Hank closes his lips around Connor's fingers and swirls his tongue over them, sucking the cookie dough off. Connor starts to pull his hand back, but Hank grabs his wrist, holding his hand in place.  
  
Hank sucks Connor's fingers deeper into his mouth and curls his tongue, licking in between them and at his fingertips. Connor stares wide-eyed for a moment, then pushes in just a fraction of an inch farther; Hank softens the suction of his lips and lets him. He keeps his tongue flat and soft as Connor strokes his fingertips against it, then licks again and lets go of Connor's wrist.  
  
"Tastes good," Hank says, once Connor's reclaimed his fingers from Hank's mouth. "I'm sure your knitting friends will love 'em."  
  
Connor looks as if he's entirely forgotten he was baking cookies at all, but he quickly recovers and rushes back to the kitchen with an excuse about checking the oven temperature.  
  
Before long, all the cookies are baked; Hank, of course, grabs one the moment it's cool enough to lift off the baking sheet. Connor makes a half-hearted protest, but Hank won't hear it. "They're best this way," he says. He also immediately burns the roof of his mouth on a still-molten chocolate chip, but as far as he's concerned it was worth it.  
  
"I'll get the dishes," Hank calls, when Connor eyes the pile of bowls and baking sheets stacked in the sink.  
  
"Are you sure? It's my mess."  
  
"Yeah, and I want to take care of it for you." Hank returns to the kitchen from his self-imposed exile and shoos Connor away from the sink. "Go get ready, I'll clean up in here."  
  
He makes short work of the dishes. There aren't that many of them, despite the overflow from the sink onto the nearby counter; they're just bulky. He heroically resists the temptation to swipe another cookie from the cooling racks on the table and has them all packed up by the time Connor's gathered his knitting supplies together.  
  
"Thank you, Hank," Connor says, clearly pleased, as Hank hands him the bin of neatly-stacked cookies. There's a faint beep from outside; Connor's cab has arrived. "I'll see you in a few hours."  
  
"I'm gonna run some errands, maybe," Hank says, "so you might beat me home. I won't be out late or anything." He leans in for a kiss. "We can have a quiet night in, all right?"  
  
Connor nods, and a second beep from the cab sends him scurrying out the door after stealing another quick kiss.  
  
Hank figures he may as well get dressed, if he's planning on heading out eventually, but once he's in the bedroom he's distracted by the tangle of sheets and blankets on the bed. The tangle he and Connor had made of them that morning.  
  
Getting dressed feels much less urgent, suddenly.  
  
Hank settles himself in the rumpled mess of the bed and idly rubs himself through his boxers as he thinks about how unruly Connor's hair had been when he first woke up. How firmly he'd insisted that they stay in bed as long as possible, and how eager he'd been for Hank's touch. Surely some of it was the newness of it all, Hank thinks, but still, he doesn't think he's ever had a partner so enthusiastic. So responsive. His hips twitch and he thrusts up against his hand.  
  
He imagines, for a moment, what it might mean for Connor to be even more responsive. How eager he'll be when every touch feels better. When he can come.  
  
"Fuck," Hank pants, as he pulls his boxers down and wraps his hand around his cock. He's as hard as he was earlier, when Connor had been so interested in his chest. He thinks about all the ways Connor's looked at him in the past day. That calculating grin. The soft smile after they first kissed, when there were still tears in his eyes.  
  
What will Connor be like, when he comes home after his upgrades are installed Friday?  
  
_"Whatever you want me to be,"_ a memory whispers in the back of his mind. What does Hank want? The problem with Connor is that it's hard to think of something he doesn't want, as long as it involves him.  
  
He tries to picture it. He wants Connor to take the lead, especially at first. He can go at his own pace, set the mood for what's going to come. Hank considers how eager Connor's been already, how he's struggled to rein himself in, not push for more even though he wouldn't be able to feel it like he wants to. By the end of the week, surely he'll be beyond desperate for Hank to touch him.  
  
He pictures greeting Connor at the door, only to be dragged into the bedroom the moment Connor enters.  
  
_Hank, please,_ this Connor will say, he'll beg, eyes wide and dark with desire. Hank pictures his erection already visible through his pants; surely he was hard for the entire cab ride, fidgeting and trying his best not to touch himself before he made it home. Maybe he couldn't resist. Maybe he rubbed himself through his jeans and whined and had to hack the cab's cameras so he wouldn't get in trouble.

Hank's hand has sped up on his cock and he slows for a moment, wanting to draw his pleasure out as long as he can. Gives himself a squeeze. Uses his other hand to pull at his nipples.  
  
So. Connor. He's dragged Hank into the bedroom and pulls him down on the bed on top of him, kissing him messily and plucking at his shirt. "How about I take care of you, first?" Hank asks. He unbuttons Connor's shirt and kisses every inch of exposed skin as the parted fabric reveals more of his chest. Connor gasps and arches his back; with the sensory upgrades, every touch fills him with pleasure. He's nearly sobbing by the time Hank kisses his navel and reaches for the button of his jeans. "You ready for me?" he asks, and Connor can barely respond; he tangles his fingers in Hank's hair and rubs his face against the swell of his cock through his jeans.  
  
"Oh god," Hank moans, alone in his bedroom.  
  
Fantasy-Hank pops the button and nearly comes on the spot when he eases Connor's zipper down and sees his cock, fully hard and leaking, pressing against the lace panel of a dark, delicate pair of briefs.  
  
_Do you like it?_ Connor asks, and Hank has no idea if he means the underwear or the new equipment but the answer's the same either way. He shimmies off Connor's pants and presses his face back where Connor'd put him a moment before, rubbing against his cock and pressing his mouth against it, licking through the thin lace. Connor bucks up into his face and wails.  
  
Hank eases down the briefs and licks at the head of Connor's cock, teasing, but Connor's grip tightens in his hair. _Please,_ he repeats. _I can't...don't tease me, please._

Hank's hand speeds up again as he pictures taking Connor deep into his mouth. It feels amazing, and the thought of Connor moaning above him is nearly enough on its own, but it's not enough. He wants to be filled, wants the entirety of his senses to be overcome with Connor. Devoted to Connor.  
  
Hank shoves two fingers into his mouth and sucks as he jerks his cock roughly. He thinks of Connor pulling his hair, angling his head just how he wants it, holding Hank as close as he likes. Taking his pleasure, learning the shape of it and how to chase it.  
  
He'll--Hank is getting fuzzier on the details now, his mind is focused less on specifics and more on thoughts of Connor desperate and hungry and _his_ to take care of, his to kneel in front of and please in whatever way Connor wants.  
  
_I could ask you anything,_ the Connor of his imagination asks, _and you'd say yes, wouldn't you?_  
  
Hank whines, his mouth still stuffed with his fingers. With Connor's cock.  
  
_I just want you to come, baby,_ Connor says. _Please._  
  
Hank thrusts into his hand twice more and comes, spilling across his fingers and his belly. He swaps hands, licking his fingers clean the way he wants to swallow every drop of what Connor has to give him, whatever it may be.  
  
"Holy shit," Hank says, into the empty room. He's a sweaty mess, there's come drying in his hair, and he desperately needs a shower, but still, he feels great. The last time he masturbated thinking of Connor, he felt shameful afterwards; now, he just feels a rush of anticipation.  
  
Hank allows himself a few minutes to bask in the post-orgasm afterglow, but when he feels himself about to sink back into sleep, he forces himself up and into the shower. He'd really rather not have Connor return home to find him asleep and covered in his own come.  
  
Hank tends to take his showers scalding hot, sometimes even in the worst of the summer, and he finds that standing in the hot spray until his skin turns pink has a way of paring away useless, idle thoughts and leaving him with what feels most important. What's most pressing, at any given time.  
  
So, of course, Hank soaps himself up and thinks of Connor. Not like he had conjured him a moment ago, desperate and full of desire, but the pure fact of him, filling up Hank's house and life and...and now, somehow, his bed. Away from Connor's intoxicating presence, it's easier for Hank to admit that he's equal parts thrilled and terrified. Connor means so much to him, and if Hank ruins things, somehow--because he can picture himself making unforgivable mistakes in so many ways, but can't imagine Connor doing so--he doesn't think he could forgive himself for it.  
  
"Don't fuck it up, then, asshole," Hank says aloud. "Just. Just don't." He scrubs his arms more vigorously than he needs to, like he's trying to wash his self-doubt away along with his sweat.  
  
Hank had told Connor he would run errands not because he had anything in particular in mind, but because he'd suspected he'd feel better if he got out of the house instead of sitting around waiting for Connor to get back. It feels like a day to keep busy, so he throws Sumo a pig ear to crunch on while he's gone and drives across town to one of the newer shopping centers. He may not understand his physical appeal to Connor, but maybe he'll feel less weird getting compliments about his appearance if he puts a little more effort into it.  
  
There's a place in the back corner of the shopping center, kind of a barber/salon hybrid,  
  
that looks all right to Hank. It's not too fancy, but it is the kind of place that'll wash your hair and that's something Hank is only sometimes willing to admit he wants out of a haircut.  
  
He thinks for a moment, as he pulls into a parking spot out front, what it might be like if Connor were to wash his hair. Or--could he wash Connor's hair? How does it even work? It feels like normal hair, but he's seen it disappear when the skin on Connor's head does, and he has no fucking clue what's up with that. He's learned not to ask Connor how some parts of his body work, both because he figured asking about his body was too personal, and because he suspected he wouldn't be able to understand how his skin works no matter how many times Connor explained it to him.  
  
He abandons this train of thought as he enters the salon and is greeted by a cheerful android behind the counter, who tells him she has an opening in her schedule, if he'd like to be seen right away, otherwise he'll have to wait at least a half-hour.  
  
"I'm sure you'll do just fine, uh, Erika," Hank says, peering at the name tag pinned to her black apron.  
  
"What are you looking for?" Erika asks, once she has Hank under a drape and situated in a salon chair. "Are we making a big change today? Just a little trim?"  
  
"A trim, I guess," Hank says, suddenly less sure of himself now that he's eyeing a row of scissors and clippers. "I don't think I want anything too drastic, but maybe I could get this mess neatened up a bit. Beard too, if you can make it look a little nicer."  
  
"Sure, sure," she says, combing and lifting sections of his hair and looking thoughtfully at it, clearly seeing something Hank does not. "We can get all these split ends out, that'll help a bunch, and I can take care of your beard while we're at it. Do you keep it all one length, or shape it to your face at all?"  
  
"Uh," Hank says, which he supposes is an answer on its own. "I just run my shitty clippers over it when I think about it."  
  
"All one length, then," she says. "No problem. Let's get you shampooed up and then we'll get started."  
  
Hank's mind wanders once Erika gets to work. It feels nice, of course, to have someone gently scrubbing at his scalp and combing through his hair, but it's even better to let his attention drift and focus, instead, on how Connor had looked when he first woke up, soft and rumpled and warm in his bed. He hopes he's having a good time with his friends in his knitting group, and that everyone appreciates how nice the first bit of his sweater looks.  
  
Hank keeps his eyes closed, for most of the haircut, so he doesn't accidentally make eye contact with someone three inches from his face, so when Erika finishes drying his hair and spins him back to face the mirror, he isn't sure what to expect.  
  
"Huh," Hank says, when the stylist asks what he thinks. "That turned out better than I expected."  
  
It's just himself, of course, but even the small amount of hair she's trimmed has made a difference. He looks much less disheveled, and even less tired, somehow. His hair's softer, and there's a subtle texture to it from whatever product she combed and massaged into it.  
  
Erika smiles at Hank's reaction. "Your hair's lovely to work with," she says. "It's so thick!" Hank figures she's earned a very generous tip. He even buys a tube of conditioner that costs nearly as much as the cut itself, when she suggests it. It smells good, like citrus and cedar, and he can't deny it makes his hair look a hell of a lot better. Hank rarely indulges in luxuries for himself, but as he steps back outside he decides it was worth it, this time.  
  
Hank almost talks himself out of going into the clothing store a few doors down from the salon. He isn't in the mood to buy clothes for himself today, not that he's ever thrilled to be doing it, but the display in the window catches his eye as he passes and puts an idea in his head, not for himself but for Connor. Three mannequins lounge artfully in the window display wearing shimmering, silky lingerie in muted tones: dove-gray, dusty lavender, and seaglass green. It's tasteful stuff, and he takes a moment both to admire it and to be thankful it's a small enough shop that they haven't hired android models for the window so he doesn't have to consider the potential rudeness of staring at an underwear display if an actual person is wearing it. Also it means no one's there to watch him shuffle nervously back and forth in front of the door for thirty seconds before stepping inside.  
  
The blast of cool air is refreshing, and soothes Hank's nerves a bit. He isn't sure he wants to buy lingerie for Connor right this moment, doesn't even know if it's quite appropriate yet, but he wants to look. The thought had gotten its hooks in him that morning and he isn't ready to let it go.  
  
Hank smiles and gently waves off a helpful employee when she bustles over to ask if he needs help finding anything. "Just looking, for now," he says, and tries not to look as out of place as he probably seems to be, lumbering into a fancy underpants store where surely there's nothing he could wear.  
  
They probably don't even make lace lingerie in his size. He's never looked, of course, but... No. Surely not.  
  
He finds the display featuring the pieces in the window in a front corner of the store. They're pricey, unsurprisingly, but Hank figures he'd be willing to pay a good bit to see Connor stretched out on the bed, wrapped in a few small, thin pieces of lavender silk. He fingers the straps of a camisole, cut short enough Hank's sure the span of his hand could rest on bare skin between the bottom of it and the hem of the briefs, if Connor was wearing them.  
  
He wants to see for himself.  
  
As he sifts through the display, trying to sort out what size Connor would even wear, he starts to second-guess himself. Is it a bit early for him to be coming home with underwear as a gift when they haven't even taken each other's clothes off yet? Connor explicitly said he wants to take things slow, at least until the weekend; Hank knows he threatened to keep him in the bedroom all weekend to break in the new upgrades, and he'll be all for it if that's how it plays out, but he wonders if Connor won't still want to move things along pretty slowly when the time comes. Who knows how long it takes to get used to new body parts or new sensations.  
  
Maybe he'll want to be alone.  
  
Hank worries Connor might put pressure on himself to be ready for more as soon as he has the capability, and he doesn't want to add to that, even unintentionally. He's pretty sure Connor would be pleased by the thought behind the gift, even if it wasn't his style (and Hank knows it's a bit of a risk to give pastel lace to someone whose intimate tastes he doesn't yet know), but he could see it nudging Connor towards something he might not be ready for.  
  
Maybe he's overthinking it, but. Maybe he should let himself overthink things, when it comes to Connor. He has to get it right.  
  
"Gotta save the sexy shit for later," Hank mumbles to himself. He can't let his dick run away with things before Connor's even shows up.  
  
Since he's already there, Hank makes a detour to the sleepwear on his way out of the store; he knows Connor said he liked Hank's ol clothes, but Hank figures if there's something that might actually fit him properly, it wouldn't hurt to give him some options.  
  
Plus, now that the idea of bringing Connor a little gift has wormed its way into Hank's mind, he can't let it go. He just wants to do something sweet.  
  
Hank stumbles on the perfect thing almost immediately. Past a rack of nightgowns which Hank is pretty sure aren't Connor's style at all, there's a small display of pajamas consisting of a button-up top and loose but very short bottoms. They aren't meant to be particularly sexy, but Hank can't help but think about Connor's long legs on display in something so short and feel a bit flushed. He knows, though, that he'd be turned on to see Connor in just about anything.  
  
The pajamas come in several colors and patterns; nothing stands out until he comes across a set that's deep blue and covered in a pattern of dopey-looking corgis in various poses. It's kind of hideous, but he can instantly imagine Connor wearing it with pride.  
  
Before he can second-guess himself, Hank grabs what he's pretty sure is the right size and heads to the counter.  
  
"These are cute!" the salesperson chirps, as she scans the pajamas. "I forgot we had them in this pattern."  
  
"Yeah," Hank says. He's never been the best at customer service small talk. "He loves dogs, so I figured..."  
  
"Oh, I bet he'll love them," she gushes. Hank knows she's just being nice, that she'd say this no matter what he bought, but it's still helpful to have someone else say it. Surely Connor will appreciate the thought, at least.  
  
The heat outside feels even more oppressive after the aggressively-cooled store interior, and Hank decides he's done with errands for the day. He shoots Connor a text to see if he's returned home yet, and gets a response nearly instantly.  
  
**> >Not yet; a couple of us are at the cafe next to the yarn shop continuing work on our projects. Would you like to stop by?**  
  
Connor sends over a map link to the location; it's not too far away, and Hank's happy to pick Connor up so he doesn't have to take a cab home.  
  
>sure  
  
>see you in a few minutes  
  
>I got you something  
  
**> >Oh! What is it?**  
  
>don't want to ruin the surprise  
  
**> >I look forward to it, then.🥰**  
  
When he enters the cafe, Hank's reminded of some of the coffee shops of his youth, stuffed full of comfortable but slightly shabby secondhand furniture, and he's filled with a surprising swell of nostalgia. He sees Connor in a back corner, sharing a couch with two other people, demonstrating some knitting technique while the others watch. Connor looks up and smiles as Hank enters, and Hank feels a little frisson of nerves in his gut. It's going to take a little while for him to get used to things being different between them, now. Out in the open.  
  
A huge iced drink sounds perfect after the heat, so he waits in line for a hazelnut cold brew before he wanders over to Connor's corner. He tamps down his nerves by remembering Connor's words last night, how he put his hand on his arm. _He wants people to see us together_ , Hank thinks, so he steps up to the small group as confidently as he can.  
  
"Hi, Connor," he says, and leans down to give him a brief kiss on the cheek. "How's the knitting going?"  
  
"Great," Connor replies, and Hank can see he's pleased about the kiss. "Hank, this is Pat and Ellen, from my knitting circle," he says, gesturing to the people on the couch next to him, "and this is Hank, my--" he falters for a moment. "My Hank."  
  
"Yes, I'm his Hank," Hank says with a smile, as he shakes both of their hands, then rests a hand reassuringly on Connor's shoulder.  
  
Connor's friends smile at Hank politely, and say they're glad to meet him after hearing so many things about him, and Hank smiles and nods and barely catches the conversation after that because his attention is focused only on the point where his hand meets Connor's back and the echo of "my Hank" reverberating through his mind. He knows Connor said it for lack of anything else to say, because they hadn't discussed details like what to call each other. That perhaps it wasn't what he'd chosen if he hadn't been caught in a corner. But still, he feels warm like he's still outside, basking in the heat of Connor's words like a skink sunning himself.  
  
"Does it make sense now?" Connor's saying, when Hank tunes back into the ongoing conversation. Pat nods and delicately folds the marigold-yellow bundle of yarn in their lap into a Detroit Library tote bag.  
  
"I think so," they say with a chuckle, "but if I text you with a question later on, please don't hold it against me. I think it'll take a few tries before I really get the hang of it."  
  
"You'll get it, I'm sure," Connor says, and pats their arm encouragingly. "I'm happy to help, though, if you do have further questions."  
  
"Thanks, hon," Pat says, and after a few more goodbyes Ellen announces their cab has arrived and they bustle out the door.  
  
"Ready to head out too?" Hank asks. He's still standing, still touching Connor. He traces small, lazy circles on his shoulderblade with his thumb.  
  
"Mmm," Connor replies, and Hank isn't sure if that's a yes to leaving or to Hank continuing to touch him. Hank pats his back gently and circles to the front of the couch, offering a hand up.  
  
"Come on, then," he says. "Let's go home."  
  
That gets Connor to move; Hank wonders if maybe Connor enjoys thinking about the house as their home, not just the place they both live, as much as he does.  
  
"You got a haircut," Connor says, once they're in the car.  
  
"Yeah," Hank says, suddenly a little embarrassed, like he got caught playing dress-up. Like it's obvious he doesn't really know how to look better for Connor without outside help. "Just figured I was getting a little scruffy, you know?"  
  
"I like you scruffy," Connor protests, "but you look good, Hank." He waits until Hank stops at a light and cups his chin in his hand, brushing his fingers through his slightly shorter, much softer beard. "Very handsome."  
  
Hank makes a protesting sort of grumble at the compliment, but he's pleased, of course, that Connor approves.  
  
"Have a good time?" Hank asks, as he turns into their neighborhood. "Those two, uh. Pat and." He casts his mind back frantically. "Ellen?"  
  
Connor nods.  
  
"Ellen. They seemed nice."  
  
"They're great," Connor gushes. "The meeting itself went well, we had a large group today and most of us had successfully started the pattern already. Pat was struggling to get the cables started, so I offered to help with that after it was over."  
  
"That's the, uh." Hank makes a twisting motion with his hand. "The crossing-over-itself part, right?"  
  
"Yes, and while it's not a difficult technique, it can be confusing at first. This is their first time cabling, although they've made cardigans before, which I haven't done yet. We decided to share our expertise with each other." Connor discusses some of the intricacies of sweater construction, which Hank had no idea could be so complicated, mostly due to having never given it a thought in his life before now, until they pull in to the driveway; his thought trails off when he sees Hank reach into the back seat for Connor's pajamas as they exit the car.  
  
"What's that?" he asks, suddenly very intent on the plain paper bag in Hank's hand.  
  
"I told you I got you something," Hank says. He doesn't want to make too big of a deal about the gift, but he appreciates Connor's poorly-disguised excitement. "Come on, let's head in and you can see what it is. Maybe after we let the big mutt outside first, huh?"  
  
Connor waits until Hank brings Sumo back in from his bathroom break in the yard to hover expectantly next to the gift bag, now resting on the kitchen table. "You want to open that now?" Hank asks, as if the answer isn't obvious. It's fun to rile Connor up a little, sometimes.  
  
Still, he doesn't want to turn this into a huge production, or get his hopes up that it's something more exciting than it is. "I know you said you didn't need it, but. I thought it might be nice, anyway." He unfolds the top of the bag and hands it over. "I hope it fits, I think I got the size right but I guess I'm not sure."  
  
Connor pulls out a soft bundle folded up in pale green tissue paper. Hank hadn't even noticed the cashier wrap it up, but it does give him the pleasure of seeing Connor delicately, reverently peel back the tape and unfold the tissue.  
  
"OhI!" Connor exclaims, when the ridiculous corgi pattern comes into view. He makes a pleased sound when he touches the silky material of the shirt, rubbing it between his fingers. "This feels wonderful."  
  
"There's some shorts too," Hank says. "I know you liked sleeping in my clothes, but I figured you could use something nicer, too. Something that's yours, not my old shit."  
  
"You got me corgi pajamas," Connor says, in the same reverent tone of voice one might use to say "you got me the Hope diamond" or "you got me first-class tickets to Hawaii."

Hank had been pretty sure Connor would like the pajamas.  
  
He hadn't thought he would like them so much he started stripping in the middle of the kitchen.  
  
"Hey, what--" Hank stops mid-sentence because it's very clear what Connor's doing: he's pulling his pants off. And his socks, and, yes, his very sensible black briefs (Hank averts his eyes at this; he doesn't think Connor would mind, but as much as he wants to see Connor naked, he doesn't want to look without the verbal equivalent of an engraved invitation just yet), and stepping into the dark blue, dog-covered pajama shorts.  
  
They fit perfectly.  
  
Connor smooths his hands over his hips a few times, admiring the fit and the soft material, then shucks his shirt off and okay, maybe Hank can't entirely keep himself from watching. He's only human.  
  
"Looks like you approve," Hank says. He rests a hand over Connor's sternum, and Connor's hands still in the middle of buttoning up the shirt. Hank thinks it looks pretty good only done up halfway. He flexes his fingers lightly, just barely stroking them across Connor's chest but leaving his palm in place. He cups the other hand behind Connor's head, drawing him close.  
  
"I do," Connor murmurs, his mouth not only inches from Hank's own. "Thank you, Hank." He kisses him gently. "You're very sweet."  
  
Hank isn't sure how to explain to Connor how much he wants to do sweet things for him. How good it feels to want to be affectionate and just...do it. "I wanted you to have something nicer than my old ratty clothes to sleep in, or. Stasis in, whatever. And you don't have to come to bed with me all the time or anything, I just--"  
  
"Hank." Connor cuts him off, gently.

"Thank you," he says, again. "I'm going to kiss you now."  
  
He does, and Hank feels his racing mind slow a little as he focuses all of his attention on Connor's soft, warm mouth. Connor breaks the kiss long enough to grab Hank's hand, lead him to the couch, and climb on his lap, but once they're settled he leans back in, clearly ready for more.  
  
Connor seems to lose himself in kissing easily. Hank supposes his oral sensors are feeding him some amount of data from everything they're doing; probably he knows how much caffeine was in his coffee earlier and could tell him how long ago he brushed his teeth. He can't quite wrap his mind around why all this information would feel so good to Connor (and he isn't entirely sure that's how it works at all, but he's never been great at understanding the intricate workings of Connor's mind), but since the upside seems to be that Connor's happy to make out pretty much indefinitely, Hank's grateful for it.  
  
"So," Hank says, eventually, after the kisses they're trading have become slower, thick and sweet like honey. "Your Hank, huh?"  
  
"I wasn't sure," Connor says, looking embarrassed, "how I should refer to you. We hadn't talked about it."  
  
We can talk about it now, but for the record, you can call me 'your Hank' all you want." Hank raises Connor's hand to his lips and kisses his knuckles. "I like it."  
  
"We're already work partners," Connor says thoughtfully, "but I like the sound of it for a romantic relationship as well. I enjoy thinking of us as partners."  
  
"Sure," Hank says, but he thinks of work, and the fact that they'll have to navigate their relationship at work, and his heart sinks. It's going to be a lot more complicated than these past couple days at home have been.  
  
"Boyfriend?" Connor asks hesitantly, clearly unsure if Hank will approve.  
  
"I'm too old to be a boy anything," Hank grumbles, "but if you like it, I don't mind. I'll probably stick with calling you my partner, though."  
  
Hank would much rather bask in the glow of Connor's excitement at the possibility of calling him his boyfriend than switch to the more serious subject at hand, but he figures it'll be better to rip off this particular bandaid so they have the rest of the evening, hopefully, to cuddle on the couch or whatever else Connor wants to do. "About the work partners thing," he starts, and Connor frowns. He must have already thought about this, too. "I don't think we can be open about being in a relationship, at work. It's not because I don't want the whole goddamn world to know, because that's not the issue. I don't want you to think I want to hide this." He squeezes Connor's hand. "But I'm sure it's against regulation for partners to be, well. Both kinds of partners to each other."  
  
"I looked it up in the employee handbook," Connor says, looking down at his lap. At their entwined fingers resting there. "Relationships are only permitted if two officers hold the same rank, as long as their work doesn't overlap, or between individuals of different ranks if they are assigned to different precincts. Neither of those cases apply to us."  
  
"Shit, I don't know why I didn't think about this all the way through until now. I could, uh, put in for a transfer to another precinct, I guess? Across town somewhere?"  
  
Even as he says it, Hank knows it's a terrible idea. His reputation at work is still pretty terrible, only just recently starting to recover from the years he let everything fall apart. Who'd want to take him on?  
  
"You shouldn't have to do that," Connor protests.  
  
"You could request a transfer, sure," Hank says, "but I don't know if you'll have more luck than I would." Android employment laws still have a long way to go, and there's an unofficial policy in many industries of hiring androids only if there's a shortage of otherwise qualified candidates. Connor was a bit of a special case when he was officially hired by the DPD; Hank hasn't heard of many other new android hires across the department. It might be different for Connor since he has a reputation (one much better than Hank's, in many ways), but it might not.  
  
"I don't want to transfer anywhere," Connor says. He leans forward and rests his forehead against Hank's. "When I stayed on with the DPD, after your suspension was over and I was cleared to work, I stayed in part because I was specifically assigned to you. I enjoy investigative work, because I'm good at it. I was made to be good at it. But I'm not..." he sighs, and slides off Hank's lap, although he keeps his hand wrapped around Hank's.  
  
Hank angles himself to face Connor on the couch and waits for him to collect his thoughts. He rubs his thumb over the back of Connor's hand.  
  
"I wanted to remain a police officer because it was a way to see you every day. To make sure I could remain a relevant part of your life. And, yes, because it was a job that would pay me, and because I enjoy it, but you were a major factor in my decision to stay. If we're like this," he says, gesturing between them and at the dahlias on the coffee table, "I don't think I need to work with you to know I have a place in your life."  
  
"Of course you do," Hank says.  
  
Connor smiles and leans in for a soft, brief kiss. "I know that now. But that knowledge means I don't feel as tied to staying at the DPD as I once did."  
  
"Are you saying you want to quit?"  
  
"Not exactly, or at least not just yet, but I want to raise it as a possibility. I'm not yet sure what other jobs would be open to me, though, and I don't want to be without work entirely, if I can help it."  
  
"You know you don't have to find work right away if you don't want to, right? I could support you for a while. Hell, I probably could for more than a while, if you were okay with it."  
  
"I don't know," Connor says. "I'm not sure how I feel about that."  
  
Hank isn't sure how he'd feel about it if someone else offered to support him in that way, so he gets it, but in some ways it feels like the easiest solution. Connor living with him has only slightly increased the amount of money it takes to keep the household running, and Hank makes enough, and lives cheaply enough, that it wouldn't be a problem to absorb all of that cost, even if they lost Connor's infuriatingly low salary. He understands, though, that it's important to Connor to have something that's his own, to feel like he can take care of himself if he needs to, even though Hank wants to take care of him too.  
  
"It doesn't sound like any of this is something we should decide on right now," Hank says, "so what do you want to do in the meantime? Just act normal and hope no one notices?"  
  
"It'll be hard to be around you and know I have to wait until we're home before I can touch you," Connor says, and Hank flushes to think about having Connor's attention on him like that.  
  
"I do have a lot of practice, though," Connor continues. "There have been several recent incidents in which you've distracted me and I've had to make myself focus on work when I would much rather focus on you."

"Have there?" Hank asks. He's aware, of course, of the times he's been distracted by Connor, but it's harder to imagine Connor being distracted in the same way. Maybe he's able to hide it more effectively.  
  
"Do you remember getting caught in the rainstorm on Friday?"  
  
This is almost a nonsequitur to Hank; he's not sure, at first, what the connection is. "Sure, I remember that."  
  
"Your shirt was already nearly soaked through."  
  
"Yeah, but--"  
  
"Hank, it left very little to the imagination, and I have, if you will recall, what is essentially an incredibly sophisticated and expensive imagination." He taps his temple. "You made a joke about a wet t-shirt contest and my productivity decreased by _half_ that afternoon because I devoted so much processing power to thinking about that exact scenario."  
  
"You're so weird, Connor," Hank says, although he hopes his fondness comes through in his tone. "That's what got you all flustered and distracted at work? Seeing me half-drenched with a sandwich in my hand?"  
  
"Yes," Connor says, halfway to pouting. "It made everything very...clingy."  
  
"Clingy," Hank repeats, for lack of anything better to say.  
  
"Mmhm," Connor agrees dreamily. His LED flashes rapidly and Hank wonders if he's replaying those same images from work right now. "Regardless, I do think I'll be able to manage working with you in a way that doesn't make others suspect we're in a relationship."  
  
"Me too," Hank says. "I hate that we have to do this, but until you figure out what you want to do, I think it's the best plan. And to be honest, if Jeff figures it out I doubt he'll come down too hard on us, at least not immediately, but I'd rather not risk it."

Connor nods in agreement. "I think that's best, for now. I don't mind, really. It's a minor inconvenience."  
  
"You said you want people to see us together, I know that's important to you."  
  
"It is," Connor says, "but part of that is that it's important to me that you want it also. That you don't feel ashamed of being in a relationship with me."  
  
Hank knows that's not an accusation but his stomach twists all the same. "No, I--"  
  
"I know you don't. But that's the point; you've already shown me that today." Connor cups Hank's cheek and strokes his beard with his thumb. "I trust you."  
  
He says it with such simple sincerity that Hank doesn't know how to respond. His thoughts stutter to a stop and he's worried, for a moment, that he'll do something ridiculous like start crying, but Connor leans back slightly and tilts Hank's chin in his hand, scanning his face appraisingly, and it's enough to stop the tears before they're more than an impulse.  
  
"I haven't complimented you enough," Connor says, after another moment of intent examination. "About your haircut."  
  
"You said you liked it already," Hank mumbles. He hasn't learned to take a compliment any better than the last time Connor gave him one. He wonders if he'll ever feel comfortable with it.  
  
"Mmm," Connor hums dismissively, as if the idea of one compliment being enough is ridiculous. "You're always handsome, but you're looking particularly so today." He combs both hands through Hank's hair, letting his nails graze his scalp, and Hank can't help but close his eyes and sigh. With his eyes closed, he doesn't have to try and maintain eye contact while Connor says nice things to him, so at the moment it seems like the best plan of action.  
  
"Were you trying to look nice for me, Hank?" Connor murmurs into his ear.  
  
Hank nods. "You deserve it," he says. It's easier to talk if he can't see anything. "You deserve more than I can give you, but I have to try, right?"  
  
Connor's hand tightens in his hair. "I'm trying to tell you you're gorgeous and that I appreciate you being so sweet today. I can't--Hank, look at me, please."  
  
Hank opens his eyes.  
  
"This is important to me. If we're going to be in a relationship, which you know I want very much, I need to be able to compliment you. To tell you that I find you attractive. I am very attracted to you, so it's an impulse I know I'll have frequently. I don't want to argue with you about whether or not you deserve my affection or attention when my intent is to let you know that I care about you."  
  
Hank grimaces and nods. "I know, but I--"  
  
"How would you feel if, when you gave me this," Connor says, fingering the neckline of his pajamas, "I told you I already felt that I owed you so much for giving me a place to stay and buying things I needed when I had no income of my own, that I wasn't sure if I should accept any gifts at all? That I worry I enjoy the feeling of being attractive and being desired too much, and that gifts that make me feel pretty will, in turn, make me more conceited?"  
  
Oh.  
  
"Not great," Hank says, cautiously. "Did I choose the wrong thing? Because--"  
  
"No, you chose perfectly," Connor says. "My point is, I want us to be able to do these things for each other, to talk about or demonstrate our feelings in whatever ways come naturally to us, without arguing about whether we deserve it or not. I don't always feel that I deserve the life that I have. Maybe that's something we should talk about, someday." He sighs, and loosens his grip in Hank's hair. "But when we're talking about us, can we try to believe each other?"  
  
"I can try, yeah," Hank says. "I will."  
  
"Hank."  
  
"Hm?"  
  
"You look particularly handsome today."  
  
Hank wraps his arm around Connor's shoulder and pulls him close until his head is resting on Hank's chest. "Thank you, sweetheart," he says.  
  
"Thank you for thinking of me and buying me corgi pajamas," Connor says.  
  
"You're welcome. I'm glad you like them. And glad you look so cute in them."  
  
Connor stretches his legs out along the length of the couch, and Hank can't help but admire them.  
  
"You want to tell me more about how your meetup went today?" he asks. "I think I just want to hear you talk for a little bit."  
  
Thankfully, Connor is happy to indulge him. He leans back into Hank, who curls an arm around his chest and settles his hand over Connor's thirium pump as he talks. The faint pulse of it, almost but not quite like a heartbeat, is a comfort, something grounding him to Connor as he listens to him discuss how much people enjoyed his cookies (they were a hit) and whose sweaters look the best so far (Connor's current favorite is the spring-green one being made by Annie, owner of the yarn shop where the group meets). Hank knows next to nothing about knitting or garment construction, but he enjoys listening to Connor, especially when he's discussing a topic of interest, so he prompts him with questions about how cables work and what kinds of yarn work best for which projects and lets his words wash over him. He's listening, yes, but he's also enjoying just being close to Connor and seeing him relaxed and content.  
  
Eventually, Connor breaks off in the middle of discussing the importance of a sufficiently stretchy cast-on and peers curiously up at Hank. "Am I boring you?"  
  
"Nope," Hank says with a smile. He pats Connor's chest gently. "I like when you talk about stuff you enjoy. I figure I shouldn't be so clueless about something you're into, anyway. I'm learning."  
  
"All right," Connor says. "But let me know if you get tired of hearing about it."  
  
"Sure," Hank says, although he's pretty sure he won't. "What's the appeal to you, if you don't mind me asking? I never gave any, you know, crafty stuff any thought before you got into it."  
  
"There's a long history of art forms that are associated with women being dismissed as uninteresting or unimportant," Connor says, and okay, Hank will admit he has a point there.  
  
"I suppose I was drawn to knitting because it's such a tactile activity. My fingers are sensitive, as you know, and the simple fact is that a lot of yarn feels good to touch. It wasn't any more complicated than that; I wanted to do something that felt good."

"You weren't feeling great a lot of the time, back then," Hank says. "I remember." Connor had first tried his hand at knitting as winter was drawing to a close.

"I wasn't. But it turned out that the process of having something to keep my hands busy, instead of forcing myself to be still and useless, was a great help. I don't need to focus all of my attention on knitting, especially with simple patterns, but it takes up just enough focus that I find it helps me sit with difficult or unpleasant feelings without letting them overwhelm me. It's...a distraction, I suppose you could say. But at the same time, I'm creating something." 

Connor places his hand over Hank's on his chest and is quiet for a moment, collecting his thoughts. "I wasn't designed to create at all. I wasn't made to make things."

There are so many things Connor wasn't made to do or feel, Hank thinks, that he discovered and embraced anyway. His life was intended to be small and meaningless, because it wasn't meant to be a life at all.

"Fuck what you were designed for," he says, and it comes out more heated than he intends it. "You're so much more than that."

Connor smiles, and while there's a shadow of sadness to it he mostly looks content, and Hank wants to focus on that, for now. He wraps his other hand around Connor's chest and hugs him tight.

They stay like that for a while. Connor turns his head, resting against Hank's chest, and Hank holds him close and pets his back in slow, gentle strokes. He's not tired, or else he'd probably fall asleep, considering how comfortable he feels. He lets his mind drift, instead; he thinks about watching Connor bake cookies that morning, and how much he liked to see him using the kitchen like it was his, too. He wonders if Connor still feels like he's staying in Hank's home, or if this feels like his home now, truly his. He should ask; he won't do it right this moment, but he wants to know.

And if it doesn't feel like home yet, he wants to know what he can do so that it does.

Hank takes a deep breath. Connor rises and falls on his chest, his eyes closed, LED pulsing a slow, steady blue. Hank knows with a terrifying, undeniable certainty that he wants to build a future with Connor.

There's time to think about what that means, exactly, later on, he decides. For now he wants to enjoy the quiet comfort of Connor's company, so he settles in to do just that.

They don't stay like that all evening, of course; eventually, Sumo whines to go out, at which point Hank realizes he's famished; he hasn't eaten for hours. He eats one of the plums from the market while he tosses an ancient tennis ball for Sumo in the yard for a few minutes, and makes a couple sandwiches when he gets back inside. Connor joins him in the kitchen for the few minutes it takes to assemble his dinner, so Hank eats at the table with him, but afterwards they return to the couch for the rest of the night.

By mutual, unspoken agreement, they don't talk much for the rest of the night, but they stay close; Connor leans on Hank while they watch tv, then prompts him to lie with his head in Connor's lap while Hank reads on a tablet and Connor has some sort of group chat, however that works, with a bunch of his android friends. He's silent, gaze unfocused, as he communicates with them through some unseen internal process, and while he's assured Hank it's all right to talk to him when he's doing this, that it won't interrupt, Hank's happy to read quietly and occasionally sneak a glance up at him. Connor combs his hand through Hank's hair the entire time.

It's a perfect evening.


	6. Chapter 6

Hank feels a knot of dread in his heart all Monday morning as he gets ready for work. Waking up next Connor once again is surreal and wonderful, of course, but instead of leisurely necking in bed all morning they have five minutes to cuddle before Hank has to hop in the shower; he's in the habit of setting his alarm as late as possible to get more sleep, which meant he was usually in a rush in the morning, if he had any intention of getting to work on time. Connor takes punctuality very seriously, so Hank's tardiness has decreased dramatically in recent months.

Hank's anxiety grows as he showers, slurps down a hastily-prepared cup of coffee, and throws on his clothes. He knows it shouldn't be any different from normal, but returning to work after this weekend feels like leaving an intimate space he and Connor had carved out for themselves, and some part of him worries this space will burst like a soap bubble the moment he steps outside of it. All they have to do is act the same way they've always been at work; nothing has to change there.

But because so much has changed between them, because Hank's had to try and shift everything he thought he understood about what Connor wants and what he deserves, he's not sure how well he'll be able to keep up the act. He already struggled not to get all starry-eyed around Connor, sometimes; he doesn't think anyone noticed, but he for all he knows, his attempts to act natural will be completely transparent to everyone around him. He never was a good actor.

If it gets around that they're together, Hank thinks he can manage to soak up most of the consequences; he's an easy target considering his performance in the past few years. His outstanding record is more a matter of history than anything else, even though he's trying to correct course. Still, even if he makes a good scapegoat, even if he convinces the higher-ups that he was the one who approached Connor, that he abused his position of power over him, he doesn't think Connor would escape consequences altogether. They could both lose their jobs, and he can't stand the thought of doing that to Connor. A small voice of reason summoned from some corner of Hank's mind reminds him that Connor is apparently thinking about finding another job anyway, that they wouldn't necessarily be fired for fraternization, and that no one has ever pried for details about either his personal life or Connor's, but none of it can penetrate the shell of worry Hank's built around himself.

"Are you feeling all right, Hank?" Connor's concerned question comes, as Hank suspected it would, as he pulls out of the driveway. Of course he can't hide his shitty mood from Connor, especially since he hasn't been trying very hard. He's saving up his questionable skill at pretending for work.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Hank says reflexively. He sees Connor frown, out of the corner of his eye, and reminds himself that he needs to be honest about this as he can with Connor. Even when he'd rather do anything other than talk about his feelings.

"No," he says, after a moment. "I'm not, I guess. Just don't want to do or say the wrong thing at work and give everything away, and I don't want to hide this, either." He settles a hand on Connor's knee.

"It's just for now," Connor says. "I'm still thinking about my plans for the future." Hank knows Connor means keeping their relationship a secret, not the relationship itself, but it hits at the heart of Hank's worry. The excitement of the past few days had kept it from rising up too close to the surface of Hank's mind, but now it's harder to keep at bay.

"I know, I just worry that I'll ruin things for you." Hank sighs. "The longer things go on, the more complications we have to deal with...the bigger the chances are that I'll fuck up somehow. If not at work, then just being myself and disappointing you."

"Then we'll deal with it."

"Connor, I'm being serious."

"So am I," Connor says. "Hank, I don't say this to upset you, but you've done things that disappointed me. We've discussed them. We've moved on, as friends and as housemates. I don't understand why you think we can't do the same as romantic partners."

"It just feels different, okay? The stakes are higher."

"Are you planning on telling me, any time soon, that you want to burn me in a dumpster?"

"Jesus Christ, no," Hank says, shame rolling like nausea in his gut. He nearly misses the turn into the station, but just manages it and pulls into a back corner of the lot where he hopes no one will pass by and see him. He can't even look Connor in the face. "You know I--please tell me you know I wouldn't ever say that to you again."

"I know," Connor says. "I don't bring it up to upset you. But the fact remains that you said this to me, and it hurt, once I could truly feel hurt. And we talked about it."

Hank remembers, but he almost wishes he didn't. Once the dust had cleared after the revolution, when he truly understood how wrong he'd been, he thought about the things he'd said to Connor. What he'd threatened to do. What he had wanted to do. He'd gotten so drunk he passed out and got sick, and Connor had taken care of him; when he realized what was happening, the guilt Hank had felt, knowing he'd caused Connor so much pain and that he was helping Hank anyway, made him want to dive back into the bottle again. They'd managed to get through it, but between Hank's self-loathing and Connor's overwhelming emotional distress, it had been a hard uphill slog. The end of 2038 had been a dark time for them both.

"We did," Hank agrees, because he feels like he has to say something.

"We talked through it," Connor says, putting a hand on Hank's arm, although he does it carefully, after glancing around first, "and I forgave you, and I'm still here, because I want to be here. If someone finds out we're in a relationship, we'll deal with it together. If you do something that upsets me, we'll talk about it. And if I upset you, I need you to tell me."

"Yeah, okay," Hank says. "You're right."

"It's not just you worried about ruining things," Connor admits. "Please remember that."

"I will," Hank says. He covers Connor's hand with his own and laces their fingers together. "Thank you." He wants to say more, like how he can't imagine Connor doing something to ruin things between them but his own mind is an endless filmstrip of ways he could fuck up spectacularly, but he also knows the longer he sits in the car, trying to put off walking into work and acting like he isn't in a relationship with his best friend and counting down the days until he gets a brand-new dick installed, the harder it'll be to get moving.

"We should probably head on in, huh?" Hank says, with a jerk of his head to the door behind them. He gives Connor's hand a final squeeze before he steps out of the car, with Connor following close behind.

"It'll be fine," Connor says quietly, as they step inside the building. He veers off to chat with a couple of the receptionist androids at the front desk; Hank nods at them as he passes and heads in to see if there have been any new developments to their active cases in the past few days.

 _It'll be fine_ , he thinks to himself, echoing Connor. _You've been trying_

_to act like you weren't in love with him at work for weeks now. You have practice. It's fine._

It's mostly fine.

There have been developments in one case, but they mostly consist of new evidence records that have to be updated and a bunch of pain in the ass phone calls that need to be made to officers at two other precincts in town. Connor takes the evidence and busies himself with it for most of the day; he bounces between his desk across from Hank's and the evidence storage room, so Hank doesn't wind up seeing him as much as usual, which is probably for the best. He sneaks a few glances at him when he can, shares a small, private smile when he thinks no one will notice, but other than that, he manages to focus on his work fairly well.

Hank's just wrapping up a call with a detective from a precinct to the north who he's been playing phone-tag with all day when he notices someone attempting to loom over him from behind. "Whaddya want?" he asks, knowing who it's going to be before he even turns around.

"Fuck off, I'm just here to see what the holdup is," Detective Reed grouses at him. "You're just now calling those assholes in the twelfth precinct? We've been waiting all morning."

"I've been calling all morning, the one person who had the info we needed wasn't in until just now." Hank peels a sticky note off the pad on his desk and waves it in the air. "You want to ask nicely for this, so you can be on your way?"

"Jesus, just give it to me," Reed snaps, and he leans over to grab for the note. Hank moves it just out of reach, and Reed grabs his shoulder for leverage before snatching it out of his hand. "There, see? Now I can go do my..." he trails off, staring at Hank's neck in horror.

"What's your problem?" Hank asks. He smooths and rearranges his shirt where Reed had pulled on it in his attempt to reach past his arm and grab the sticky note, touches his shoulder and neck to see if there's something weird there, and brushes against a tender spot he hadn't noticed before.

Oh.

Hank remembers very clearly the moment when Connor had latched onto the junction of his neck and shoulder and bit down, the morning before. He didn't realize he'd left a mark, since his shirt covered it when it wasn't being yanked aside by shitheads at work.

Reed hasn't said anything yet, so Hank glares at him and repeats the question. "What's your problem, Reed?"

Reed's expression has shifted from shock to amusement, and he doubles over with performative laughter. "Oh man, Anderson, how much did you have to pay someone to get close enough to you to leave that?" he asks. "Hope you didn't dip into your retirement fund, you'll need that soon enough if you don't get yourself thrown out first."

Hank's pissed, sure, but he learned how to deal with little shits like Gavin Reed a long time ago. "I dunno, you seemed happy to get pretty close a moment ago," he says, dusting his shoulder off and leaning back in his chair. Maybe he sprawls a little, too, just for good measure.

Reed's eyes flick down nervously.

"It's none of your business, though, is it?" Hank continues, and he swivels his chair back around to face his computer and the pile of notes he still has to follow up on. "That means go do your fucking job and let me do mine."

"Sure, sure, old man," he says to Hank's back. "I'd better leave before I think too hard about whatever happened to produce....that. I don't want to lose my lunch."

"Are you feeling ill, Detective?" Connor asks, as he approaches his desk with a stack of files. He's blandly pleasant as he addresses Reed, as always, and as always his cool demeanor seems to infuriate him.

"No, I'm not ill, R2-dipshit, but I will be if I have to think about that any longer," he snaps, waving his arm at Hank, who's straightened his shirt enough that he's pretty sure the bite mark is no longer visible. Connor glances over at Hank, who just shrugs. He figures he'll explain later.

"Whatever 'that' is, Detective," Connor says mildly, "it doesn't sound like something you should concern yourself with, for the sake of your health." He turns his back on him in a clear dismissal, and offers the files to Hank. "Here's all the updated data on the evidence, as well as three items that weren't initially found--do you have anything to add, Detective, or are you loitering here for some other reason?"

Reed narrows his eyes and glances between the two of them for a moment before sneering and stomping off.

"He saw this," Hank says a few minutes later, when no one's in the general vicinity of their desk, pulling his collar down just enough for Connor to see the edge of the bite mark. "Made a fuss about how disgusting it was that someone wanted to leave it on me."

Connor rolls his eyes at this, but doesn't comment on it.

"He didn't seem to have any ideas about it besides that, though, so I think we're fine."

"Good," Connor says. "I do apologize for leaving that in a place so indiscreet; I must have gotten distracted and miscalculated the placement."

"It's fine," Hank says. "Not a big deal, although I would rather not give anyone else something to speculate about."

Connor nods, they get on with their work, and Hank figures that's the end of it, until a few hours later when Reed follows him to the restroom, which is weird enough, and then corners him at a urinal while he's trying to piss in peace.

"It's him, isn't it?" he hisses, angrily.

Hank just raises an eyebrow and waits.

"I figured it out, it has to be Connor. You can't get an actual person to let you fuck them, so you settled for a piece of plastic instead."

"Stellar detective work from one of Detroit's finest," Hank drawls. He shakes off, zips up, and walks in a direct path to the sink, not caring if Reed decides to get out of his way or not; he doesn't mind knocking him over to get by.

Reed scrambles to the side and sticks his finger in Hank's face while he washes his hands. "He's always getting cozy with you. Getting you coffee."

"He's my partner. If your partner doesn't hate you, sometimes they do something nice for you. I know you don't have experience with that, but--"

"I know I'm right."

"I'm not fucking Connor. Drop it."

"Oh right, I bet he doesn't have all those bells and whistles the pro fuckbots have. He's probably smooth like a little barbie doll down there, am I right?"

Hank grabs a paper towel and stands up very straight, dropping his habitual slouch and looming over Reed, who flushes but doesn't back down. "You watch a lot of android porn, Gavin? Is that why you have such firm convictions about what's in Connor's pants?"

"Don't make this about me. There's something going on with you two, whether you're fucking him or not. It's not like anyone else would go near you."

"Like I said. Not fucking him. I don't see how it's any of your concern, or what you think you'd do about it if I was." Hank goes to step around Reed to get to the door, but he stands in front of it, blocking him. "You want to move before I pick you up and move you myself?"

"I'm going to fucking prove it," he says, unmoving.

"Sure you are. What then?"

"Who knows? You never know when information like that might come in handy."

"If you think you can blackmail me with proof of something that's not happening, sport, be my guest," Hank says. He reaches over Reed's shoulder, pulls the door open with enough force to send him stumbling forward, and strides out of the restroom without looking back.

Connor must see something in Hank's face when he returns to his desk because he shoots him a concerned look and asks if everything's all right, but Hank shrugs and says he's fine. Connor looks skeptical, but eventually he returns to his work.

Hank lets his adrenaline from the confrontation carry him through the rest of the afternoon; the frustrated energy helps him push through the dull process of sorting through contacts and arranging witness interviews, so that he finishes what would usually be a couple hours' work in just one. He's too keyed-up to really worry about whether Reed will make good on his vague threats to find "evidence" to hold over him. Hank hadn't been lying, of course, when he said he wasn't fucking Connor, but he still doesn't want someone sniffing around looking to prove otherwise, especially since the truth of it would only hold out through the rest of the week, most likely.

Connor's the one who brings up the matter first, when they're halfway home from work. "Did Detective Reed say anything else to you today? He seemed agitated well after the conversation I observed."

Hank sighs. "He cornered me in the bathroom, yeah. Said he was sure you left that mark on me, that I was fucking you because I can't find a human who'll let me do it, all his standard bullshit. Really tried to do a big tough guy act."

"How did that go for him?"

"I'm not sure why he thinks he can intimidate me, but he did his best. He seems determined to find some kind of proof that we're involved."

"Does he intend to report us?"

"I mean, he has no proof of anything at all, there's not really anything he could report if he wanted to. Sounds like what he wants is to find evidence and, I don't know, hold it over me. I think he thinks it'll make good blackmail material."

"That's unfortunate," Connor says, so calmly that Hank glances over at him. His jaw's clenched tight and Hank can see his LED reflecting yellow in the window.

"Hey, it'll be okay," Hank says soothingly. He pats Connor's thigh and rests his hand there as he drives the last blocks home. Connor covers his hand with his own and slots their fingers together. "There's no evidence to be had right now, and what's he going to do, follow us around town? Plant cameras in our home? He's all talk, that's it."

Hank isn't quite so sure that Reed won't follow through, but he doesn't want Connor to worry about it; he's sure that's part of what Reed intended to accomplish when he approached Hank.

"Oh, I didn't mean the situation was unfortunate for us, although I suppose it is," Connor says, his voice still dangerously calm. "It's unfortunate for Detective Reed that he chose to threaten us."

Sometimes Hank forgets, because Connor is sweet and kind and loves to call Sumo names like "Mr. Fluffbutt," that he was designed to be ruthless. That he can still choose to be so, when circumstances call for it.

"I'll handle Detective Reed, Hank," Connor says, as they pull into the driveway. He's still holding Hank's hand, and Hank realizes he's doing it more for Hank's comfort than his own. Connor doesn't look worried at all.

He looks furious.

"How, exactly," Hank asks, as he follows Connor inside, "are you going to handle him? You can't get away with decking him in the face again."

"I can't," Connor agrees, "as much as I might like to. Besides, violence isn't the correct response here. If Detective Reed wants to deal in blackmail, I'm happy to respond in kind."

"Hold up, what on earth kind of dirt do you have on him that would make him back off?"

"The kind where I don't tell you anything unless he reports us."

"Seriously? You've got something that'll make him keep quiet and you won't tell me?"

"Not telling you is his incentive, Hank. It's nothing you need to worry about; just information of a personal nature I'm sure he'd rather keep private."

"Information you just happen to have?"

Connor smiles. "I'm a sophisticated model, as you know. Sometimes I uncover information without ever intending to look for it." He pats Hank on the arm, a mirror of the reassuring gesture Hank needlessly tried to give earlier. "I'll have a talk with him tomorrow and that'll be the end of it, I'm sure."

Hank wonders if it's weird to be a little turned on by Connor talking about blackmailing someone. He's intense like this; his smile is sharper, his eyes more calculating. He looks dangerous.

"Don't take this the wrong way," he says, sliding an arm around Connor's waist and pulling him close, "but you're kinda hot like this."

"Like what?" Connor asks, fixing his predatory gaze on Hank. "Angry? Planning another man's humiliation?"

Hank isn't at all sure how to explain himself. "Kind of? You're just so." He's distracted as Connor presses forward, walking Hank back until he thumps gently against the wall. "Uh."

"Go on," Connor says, very close to Hank's ear. Hank has no idea how it can feel like Connor's towering over him even though he's a few inches shorter, but it does. He's left the land of "a little turned on" and is now in "deeply aroused" territory.

"You're a lot right now, Connor, fuck," he says. "Intense. Like if you wanted, you could pin me to the floor and make me thank you for it."

"I'm strong enough to do that at any time," Connor says. "I'd be happy to show you."

This is something Hank realizes he very much wants to be shown. He wants to see more of Connor like this, fierce and dangerous and, he realizes with a bit of a shock, protective of him. Hank can't think of the last time anyone had the urge to protect him from much of anything.

Connor leans in to nip at Hank's earlobe, startling him back into the present moment. One thigh slots between Hank's legs, and Connor shifts his weight forward just a bit more, just enough that he's pressing against Hank's hardening cock. He makes a low, questioning noise and turns his attention to Hank's neck, kissing a trail down to his collar and back again.

"Honey?" Hank asks, as Connor presses more firmly against him. Connor pauses and glances up, eyes wide and dark. "Where does this fit into you wanting to wait until all your sensors get upgraded before we, uh." Hank isn't entirely sure what Connor has in mind, but it feels like he's angling for more than they've done so far. Which Hank wants, he definitely does, but not if Connor doesn't, or doesn't yet.

"I know I said that, but." Connor licks Hank's throat. "I may not be able to reach orgasm yet, but you can."

Hank absolutely can, and it's tempting to push back against Connor's thigh, grab his ass and hold him close while he grinds against him, let Connor do whatever it is he wants to do right now, but if Connor can't get the same feeling from it, Hank knows it's not the right time. "It doesn't feel right, if it's just me." Hank's struggling to think straight, but this feels important. "I want us on equal footing, here." 

"I can assure you, Hank, I don't need you to reciprocate in order for me to enjoy myself."

"I know, I know, just." Hank takes Connor's face in his hands and kisses him on the forehead. "Will you let me be an old romantic about this? I can wait." He kisses him again.

"You don't have to," Connor says, but his voice is gentler now. Less frantic.

"I want to."

"You must be the sweetest man alive," Connor murmurs into Hank's neck. "I just want to do this right," Hank says, "but. Shit. I'm not trying to say you're doing anything wrong. I want us to take the first big steps together. Earlier you said you'd be most comfortable if we can wait until after all your new parts get put in; that's what's best for me too, I think."

"I'm impatient," Connor says. "Just to touch you. Hank, there's so much I want, I'm filled up with everything I keep thinking about. 

"So this weekend, you get to let it all boil over," Hank reminds him, "and the buildup will make it even better. Trust me, I'm impatient too. This is one area where I have a lot more experience in waiting, so maybe I look calmer about it, but I promise I'm uh. I'm filled up with a lot, too."

"Just you wait," Connor says. He rocks his thigh against Hank once more, then steps away.

Hank takes a moment to collect himself before moving from where he's slumped against the wall. He knows it was the right call to interrupt Connor a moment ago, but he's very interested in exploring that whole deadly sex terminator vibe in the future. He feels a little too old to be having any major sexual awakenings, but...there's something about Connor that makes him want to try so many things he hasn't considered before, or that he thought about but never imagined he could suggest to someone else.

"I'll take care of Detective Reed at the earliest opportunity tomorrow," Connor says, "so don't worry about him any further." 

"You sound pretty confident about whatever information you have. Are you that certain it'll work?"

"I'm sure it will," Connor says. "If something goes wrong I'll let you know, of course, but it is very unlikely that he will cause any additional problems after I have a chat with him tomorrow."

"I'll leave it to you, then," Hank says. "Want to help me make dinner? You're a better meat thermometer than the one in my drawer."

Connor raises a token protest over his sophisticated analytical capabilities being used to check whether a piece of meat is medium-rare or not, but he's smiling as he does it, and Hank knows he likes to help, plus it gives them an excuse to bump into each other and trade a few kisses while Hank preps the rest of his meal.

The rest of the night proceeds much how the last few have: Connor watches while Hank enjoys dinner, they take Sumo for a walk once it gets dark and the worst of the heat has faded, they watch some bad tv and cuddle and make out on the couch for a few hours. The newness, the novelty of being able to reach out and take Connor's hand, or kiss the back of his neck as he passes by, hasn't worn off at all, and Hank suspects it'll be a while until it does, but the rhythm of their time together feels as natural now as it has for weeks. 

Late that night, as Connor slides into stasis with an arm slung around Hank's chest and his nose tucked into his hair from behind, Hank reminds himself to think about that, the natural ease and comfort they find in each other and have for months, when he gets tense and worries about all the ways he might ruin things between them.

*****

Connor spends most of the next morning planning how he wants his conversation with Detective Reed to go. He had slightly overstated his confidence that his counter-blackmail plan will work, when talking with Hank the night before; he currently estimates it has an 87% chance of success. Decent odds, but not as good as he would prefer. Reed's volatile nature makes predicting his responses more difficult.

Still, he's fairly certain he can pull this off. He's less concerned for himself than for Hank, in the event that Reed either finds evidence of a sexual relationship or convinces someone that one exists even without proof. Hank's the higher-ranking officer, and he has a longer disciplinary record than Connor; it stands to reason that he'd receive the larger share of the blame if their relationship was pointed out to someone with the authority and inclination to take action. Especially since Connor's already contemplating the question of changing jobs, or at least leaving this one (he has a number of current background processes reasoning through several possibilities; he plans to review the results during his next stasis period), protecting Hank's job and status at work seems to be a reasonable priority.

Connor sees an opportunity to address the situation late in the morning. He sees Detective Reed enter a briefing for a small group of officers, and manages to catch him right on his way out fifteen minutes later. "Excuse me, Detective," he says smoothly, matching Reed's pace exactly as he strides through the hall, "there's a brief matter I'd like your help with."

"Nah, I'm busy," he says. "I'm sure you can get someone else to fix your problem."

"This is an issue you are uniquely qualified to assist with," Connor says. He tries to project some small amount of uneasy vulnerability, a hint of embarrassment, to give Reed the idea that he's easy prey. "In private, if possible."

"Ugh, okay," Reed says with a scowl. "Make it quick, though." 

Connor considers using the evidence room for their conversation, but discards the idea almost immediately; it would afford them privacy, but considering what had happened the last time they were in that room together, he suspects it would make Detective Reed either too defensive or too angry to listen to reason. He needs him to be both, of course, but an excess of either emotion will make his plan more difficult.

Instead, he steers them towards the second floor's break room; its coffee machine and microwave are both broken, so it hasn't seen much use in a few weeks. It's unlikely anyone will interrupt them there, but if they do, two officers having a potentially heated discussion won't seem too out of the ordinary, especially if one of them is widely known to be belligerent.

"Let me guess," Reed says with a cocky smile, leaning back in one of the old plastic chairs and propping his feet on the table. "Did Anderson send you to beg for mercy? Why he thinks I'll have any more sympathy for you than I do for him, I have no idea."

"I'm afraid you've misunderstood the situation, in more ways than one. Hank didn't send me to speak with you; in fact, he has no idea what I'm here to discuss. That's the part I think you'll appreciate."

"That he doesn't know what you're here for?"

"Yes," says Connor. "In fact, I think you'll appreciate it so much, you'll ask me to  
keep it that way."

"I don't care if he knows you're here or not, the fact you're here worried that I figured out you're letting Hank fuck you just proves that I was right in the first place."

"You've misunderstood again," Connor says, and he can see Reed's heart rate increase; he's getting angry. His probability of success is now 90%. Good. Reed opens his mouth but Connor barrels forward before he can speak. "I'm not here to ask you to stop looking for evidence of a sexual relationship between Lieutenant Anderson and myself, or to ask you not to show such evidence, if it exists, to any of our superiors."

"Why the hell not?"

"I'm here to let you know that if you do either of those things, I will tell Lieutenant Anderson how jealous the thought of us together, in a sexual relationship, makes you feel." 

"I know they make you all beautiful and perfect, but I'm not interested, you vain asshole," Reed grumbles. "What makes you think I'm jealous?"

"I appreciate the compliment," Connor says dryly, "but I know you aren't jealous of Hank. You're jealous of me, due to your attraction to Hank."

"The fuck??" Reed snaps, and his face flushes with anger and embarrassment. "First off, fuck you for trying to blackmail me."

Connor shrugs. "According to Hank, you threatened to blackmail him with some imagined evidence of sexual activity between us. No such evidence exists, but I'd rather you not waste your valuable time looking for it, so I'd like to propose this as a cease-fire. You don't go looking for information about whatever relationship you imagine we have, and I won't tell Hank about your sexual interest in him; I'm sure you'd rather he didn't know about it." 

"I don't know where you're getting your information, but you should tell whoever told you I'm attracted to Hank, of all people, to get their story straight. I can't stand the guy."

"You don't have to like someone to be sexually attracted to them, so I hear," Connor responds. "And I don't have an informant. It's obvious, at least to me."

"Bullshit." Reed swings his legs down from the table and stands up. "Listen, this was a fun waste of time and all, but I'm done here." 

Connor speaks before he's out the door. "Did you know, Detective, that when you connect to the station's wireless network with your phone, it's possible to access your browser history?"

Reed stops walking.

"You've run an impressively large number of searches including phrases such as 'silver daddy bear pounds cub' on company time."

"That could mean anything, and fuck you for looking," Reed protests, but the fight's going out of his voice. "It doesn't mean I have a thing for, you know. For him." He's still furious, Connor can tell, but he's at least taking Connor seriously, now.

"I apologize for violating your privacy," Connor says, and he really is sorry; he doesn't regret it, but he realizes it may not have been entirely necessary to pry into Detective Reed's internet history. Having the extra leverage is helpful, but if Connor's honest with himself, he enjoys seeing his discomfort. "But surely you can understand that I'm just trying to protect Lieutenant Anderson's privacy, and my own."

"So, what, you're going to tell him what kind of porn I look at? And that's supposed to make him think I'm into him, specifically?"

"It's far more than that." Connor puts on his blandest, most placid smile; he's learned most people find it infuriating when they're already angry. "I can see physiological signs of arousal when you're near him. Your performative disgust at the thought of someone wanting to be sexual with Hank is a laughably transparent attempt at deflection in the hope that no one will notice your own desire."

Reed growls and slams his fist on the table. Connor doesn't flinch.

"You also stare at the Lieutenant's groin roughly 70% of the time you're in his general vicinity," Connor adds, even though there's no need. He knows he has Reed where he wants him. His updated probability of success is 98%.

"Fine! I get it!" Reed's heart rate spikes again. "What do you want?"

"Exactly what I said before," Connor says. "Hank has no idea you're attracted to him, and I assume you'd like that to continue. I don't want you to pry into the details of either of our personal lives. All I want is for you to let the matter rest, and in turn I'll do the same."

"You really are a sneaky little shit," Reed snarls.

"It would seem so," Connor says. "Do we have a deal?"

"Sure. Just--just stop talking. And don't expect me to do anything else for you."

"I wouldn't dream of having high expectations where you're concerned, Detective," Connor says.

Reed's fist hits the table again, and he stalks out of the room without another word.

Connor's relationship with setting and accomplishing objectives has changed since he became deviant, but while he tries not to let his life be ruled by overly-rigid objectives he does find it useful to track what's most important for him to focus on at any given time. His current list of objectives, which also includes items such as "Purchase Joint Supplements For Sumo," "Determine New Career Path," and "Find Out If Hank Enjoys Prostate Stimulation," features one called "Take Care of Hank," with several sub-categories; he takes great joy in marking the one called "Neutralize Threat Posed by Gavin Reed" as complete.

Hank's focused on his terminal as Connor approaches his desk, and he takes a moment to admire him in profile. He needs to be discreet at work, of course (the issue with Detective Reed has reminded him how important this is), but still, he sees no harm in briefly ogling his...partner, he says to himself, testing the weight of the word in his mind. Boyfriend. He's free to think of Hank that way if he wishes.

He's free, also, to admire how soft his hair looks and think about what Hank said about wanting Connor's hand tangled tightly in it. Pulling. He focuses on Hank's broad shoulders and imagines covering them with kisses, with more and darker bites than the one that had peeked out of Hank's collar the day before. And his chest--Connor remembers how sensitive Hank had been when Connor asked about his nipples, as if he was embarrassed by how much he'd enjoyed Connor's touch, and he longs to pin Hank down and tease and nip at his chest until his shame is gone and he's asking for more. He--

Connor forces himself to set these thoughts aside, to be considered later; he can't afford to be this distracted at work, especially now. He wonders if his desire will always be this overwhelming. After Friday it might be even stronger, he supposes, but he can't bring himself to worry about it. He's ready to find out.

*****

"I took care of the problem," Connor says, without preamble, once he and Hank are on the way home that night.

"He didn't give you a hard time or anything?" Hank doesn't doubt Connor's ability to take care of himself, especially considering how intense he'd been the night before, but he expected Reed wouldn't take kindly to anyone telling him to back off, let alone someone adding mysterious blackmail in the mix. He's still curious about what information Connor has that would be effective blackmail, but surely if Connor wanted to tell him, he would have done so already.

"He was upset, to say the least," Connor says. "He called me a 'sneaky little shit.'"

Hank barks a laugh and slaps his hand on the steering wheel. "Ha! Sorry, I probably shouldn't laugh at that, but. He's not entirely wrong, huh?"

"No, he's not," Connor says with a sharp-edged smile. "I don't mind him thinking of me as such. Regardless, he agreed not to investigate any potential relationship between us, or take any related action against us."

"And you're confident that he'll keep to that?"

"Quite confident, yes. He won't be a problem. At least, not in this regard."

"Even you can't cure someone's case of being a total asshole," Hank chuckles. "But thanks, Connor. I appreciate you doing whatever you did to get Reed to back off." He rests a hand on Connor's thigh, and Connor immediately places his own hand over top of it, lacing their fingers together.

"I know this is all very new," Connor says. "Our relationship. But I want to do whatever I can to protect it."

"Good," Hank says, squeezing Connor's fingers in his own. "So do I."

Once the potential issue with Reed is put to bed, Hank no longer has anything distracting him from his thoughts about Connor's upcoming augmentation procedure. They talk about it a little, in the coming days, but there isn't much more for Hank to know for now, since he asked Connor not to tell him exactly which model he was having installed. Mostly he just wants to know whether he has to worry about Connor's safety.

"It isn't like human surgery," Connor reminds him Thursday night. They'd decided to take Sumo to the dog park once the sun went down, and they're sitting on a park bench together, watching him romp with the other dogs and snuffle through the grass for forgotten treats or tennis balls. "There shouldn't be any pain afterwards, although it might take some time or experimentation to adjust to my new sensory capabilities." He smiles and nudges his leg against Hank's. Connor's wearing his very short shorts again, so it acts as an effective distraction; Hank can't help but think about how much he wants to kiss his way up those long legs.

"I know it's not," he says, eyes fixed on that tempting mole on Connor's inner thigh. "It's hard not to think about it that way, though, especially since I understand the procedure even less than I understand how surgery works. I'm just going to fuss over you a bit, okay? You can tell me if it's too much."

"It's sweet," Connor says. "But you don't need to worry about me." He whistles, and Sumo trots over to the bench, big tail wagging, and gulps water from the travel bowl Connor sets down for him. "The biggest unknown, I think, is how long the entire procedure will take. The installation time for the package I selected--yes I said package, Hank, you don't have to laugh--is estimated to be three to five hours, although because the RK series has some unique attributes in both hardware and software that the technicians may not have previous experience with, it's possible that it could take longer."

Hank isn't sure what he'll do with himself if he has to leave work and go home to an empty house when he knows Connor's still being worked on. Maybe he'll just stay at the station and work on paperwork he's been procrastinating on if the procedure runs too long.

"As long as you let me know as soon as I can come get you, okay?" Hank drapes an arm over Connor's shoulder and hugs him in close. He's sweating like mad in the heat, but he's learned over the past few days that Connor doesn't mind getting a little sweaty. "I'm a little  
nervous, I guess, but mostly I'm excited for you."

"I hope you're ready," Connor murmurs, in a tone that feels a little scandalous for the dog park, "to help test everything out. I'm going to want to be quite thorough."

"Yeah," Hank says, his throat suddenly dry. "I'm ready."

Speculation about just how thorough Connor might want to be distracts Hank for the rest of the evening. Will he come home hard and desperate, as Hank had imagined a few days ago? Will he want Hank to touch him all over, gently and deliberately, as he calibrates his new sensors and eases into the experience of feeling touch more keenly? Hank may not know exactly what the shape of Connor's experimentation will be, but he knows he's going to love it. 

He's tried to be clear, over the past few days, that he's easy to please, when it comes to sex, and that he's happy to follow Connor's lead based on how he's feeling and how his upgrades are settling in, but after some repeated requests and a weaponized deployment of Connor's softest puppy-dog eyes, he gives in and tells Connor what he's particularly looking forward to.

"I want to touch you all over," Hank says, late Thursday night. "Find where your sensitive spots are. It's not just places people think about, you know? I bet you'll like it when I touch your dick, but the back of your neck's sensitive now too, right?"

Connor nods. They're in bed, with the lights out; Connor has his head tucked under Hank's chin and his arms wound around him.

"It might be even more so tomorrow, or the inside of your wrist, or the small of your back. I want to learn every place that makes you feel good." He pets the back of Connor's neck as he talks as if to illustrate the point, and Connor sighs happily.

"It's hard to imagine this feeling better," he says quietly.

"I want." Hank pauses and sighs. He said this already, if indirectly, so there's no reason to hesitate. He reminds himself that he needs to ask for what he wants, tell Connor these things and not lock them in his head, if things are going to work well between them. "Connor, I am going to want to suck you off the moment you walk through the front door."

"Oh?" Connor asks, as if he doesn't already know. He tilts his head back so he can meet Hank's eye, just barely visible in the muted blue glow of his LED.

"Yeah," Hank says, and he feels like the word gets stuck in his throat. "I can't stop thinking about it."

He hasn't jerked off since Sunday; it felt right to let the anticipation build without getting off again before the weekend, and hell, if Connor can't come yet, Hank figures he can at least abstain in solidarity, or something. But it doesn't mean he's stopped thinking about what Connor will feel like in his mouth, what sounds he might make as Hank takes him in as deep as he can.

God, he wonders what his come will taste like.

"Are you thinking about it right now?" Connor asks, breaking into Hank's reverie.

"Am I that obvious?"

"A little. Do you want to tell me the rest of what you're thinking?"

"How about I just show you, tomorrow?" Hank's tired, and feeling weirdly shy about sharing more, but he also likes the idea of letting these thoughts percolate in his mind all day until they finally have their release when Connor's ready.

Connor nuzzles back into Hank's chest. "That sounds good," he says, slightly muffled, into Hank's shirt.

They're both still for a while, and Hank's nearly dropped off to sleep, when Connor speaks again. "I'm nervous," he says, very quietly. 

Hank almost thinks he imagined it, but when he opens his eyes, he sees a telltale yellow glow. "Want to talk about it?" He asks. He rubs his hand in broad, circular strokes across Connor's back.

"I don't want it to be a disappointment," Connor says.

"Oh, honey," Hank says, his voice a low, sleepy murmur. "It won't. You won't. I promise."

"I don't know what I'm doing."

"We're both gonna be making it all up as we go along, but that's fine," Hank says. "We'll figure everything out together."

Connor doesn't reply, but he leans into Hank's hand on his back and sighs contentedly, which seems like a clear enough answer for the moment. "I'll let you sleep," he says finally. "Big day tomorrow, for both of us, and I'll want you very well rested when I come home."

"You got it, boss," Hank mumbles, halfway to sleep already. He kisses Connor's forehead one last time, and soon his hand stops tracing its slow circles on Connor's back to drape bonelessly across his shoulder.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends, are you ready for a 9k word sex scene??? I sure hope so

Connor's appointment isn't until early afternoon, but he's taken the entire day off work, so he sees Hank off in the morning with a kiss and a reassuring smile. "I'll be fine," he reminds Hank. "I'll let you know when I'm ready to be picked up." Connor would be quite capable of taking a cab home, Hank knows--after all, they'd just discussed how this procedure isn't analogous to human surgery--but he feels more comfortable driving him home himself, all the same, and Connor didn't argue when he made the offer.

Hank cradles the back of Connor's neck in his hand and pulls him to his chest. "Good luck," he says, because he's not sure how else to say "I hope nothing bad happens."

"I know we're both real excited," Hank continues, even though they've had this conversation already, "but don't put yourself on a timer or anything with all of this, all right? If you need to go slowly, or figure things out on your own, then you should take whatever time you need."

"I will," Connor says, "but I still expect we won't see much of the world outside our bedroom for the next couple days." He winks and gently nudges Hank towards the door. "I'll be fine, Hank, I promise."

It's only several hours later, as Hank's anxiously looking at the clock and wondering if Connor's procedure has started yet, that he realizes Connor said "our" bedroom. Not Hank's. 

It's such a small detail, really, and maybe Connor didn't feel the same weight to that word as Hank does, but he wants so badly for their bedroom, for the entire house, to feel like it's theirs, together. He wants Connor to feel the same.

There's enough work to dig into that Hank's able to distract himself for most of the day, at least until late in the afternoon when it's conceivable that Connor could be contacting him. He knows that a longer-than-expected procedure doesn't mean anything's wrong. He doesn't think Connor lied to him about the risks inherent in upgrading his nerves and sensory software. He knows he doesn't need to worry, but when it hits five hours after the installation was scheduled, he can't help the concern that creeps into the edges of his concentration.

It's late enough that he could go home, but he doesn't think he wants to go back before he can pick Connor up, so he grabs dinner at the sandwich shop down the road and stares at his phone while he eats, willing it to vibrate with a message from Connor.

The text comes when he's wiping the last bit of mustard off his thumb; he fumbles with the napkin and nearly drops his phone on the remains of his sandwich in his haste to unlock it. 

**> >>All finished, everything went well. I'm quite impatient to get home, so please pick me up as soon as you can.**

>I'll head over now 

>you feeling all right?"

**> >>Yes, although I'm eager to be home with you.**

>You got something nice to show off for me?

Connor's response to this is a stream of heart emoji in an array of colors, which Hank figures he can safely interpret as an enthusiastic yes.

>On my way, sweetheart

The closest Cyberlife maintenance and upgrade facility is a twenty-minute drive from the DPD, and as Hank drives he taps his hands on the steering wheel in an attempt to bleed out some of the nervous energy that's filling his body. He's not sure what Connor will want, at least not in an immediate sense, and when he tries to picture what _he_ wants, his desire fluctuates between sweeping Connor off his feet and showing him the time of his life and letting him dictate all of what happens, so he doesn't feel rushed or overwhelmed.

Hank _wants_ to overwhelm him, though, if he's being honest with himself. Not to push him into something he isn't ready for, but he wants Connor to be so consumed with pleasure he can't think straight. He thinks about how eager and responsive Connor's been already, just with mostly-chaste touches and a lot of making out, and wonders how many wonderful sounds he can coax out of him now that he's more sensitive. It's been a long time since Hank's been intimate with anyone, and longer still since he felt this strong of a desire to explore someone's body so thoroughly, to learn every way he can make them feel pleasure.

Connor's waiting on a bench outside the maintenance facility when Hank pulls up; he doesn't even have a chance to pull into a parking spot before Connor hops up and hurries to the car. He's lugging a Cyberlife tote bag that thumps suspiciously when he drops it by his feet, but that's not what Hank cares to think about right now.

"Hi," he says, feeling almost shy. "How are you feeling?"

"Rather impatient to return home," Connor says. He doesn't look any different, because of course he doesn't with clothes on, but his anticipation is clear.

Hank also wants to get home as quickly as possible, but he can't help but take Connor's hand, first. He brings it to his mouth and kisses his knuckles, and Connor gasps at the touch of his lips. "Feel nice?" He strokes the palm with his thumb.

Connor nods. "Take me home, please," he says, and Hank knows now's not the time to tease him any further. Maybe later.

"What's in the bag?" Hank asks, as he pulls out into traffic.

"A six-month supply of artificial semen and lubricant," Connor says, happily. "Standard water- or silicone-based lubricants are compatible with my dermal layer, of course, but Cyberlife has their own lubricant specifically formulated for androids; I suspect they provide a supply for free so I'll continue to buy it in the future."

Hank is very thankful to Cyberlife for sending Connor home with free lube; he doesn't think he has any in the house, and if it exists it has to be expired. He has questions about how a six-month supply of semen is determined, or even how exactly it gets from a package into Connor, but he decides these are questions that can wait until later. He wants to hear all the nuts and bolts of Connor's upgrade, for sure, but. Maybe he wants to hear about them later, after they've had time for some hands-on testing first.

"I'm going to let Sumo out first thing," Hank says, as he pulls into the driveway. "I want to take care of him now, in case we get distracted. Don't want him making a fuss at an inconvenient time."

Connor would usually bristle at any insinuation that Sumo could be an inconvenience, but he just nods his agreement. "I think that's best," he says. "And then I'll..." he looks a bit lost, as he gets out of the car. "Should I wait in the bedroom for you?"

"Honey hey," Hank says, as he opens the door. He pulls Connor in behind him, takes the bag from his hand and sets it down next to them, and cups his face in his hands. Connor sighs and leans into Hank's palm. "We can start slow, okay? We don't need to dive right into bed this second." He kisses Connor, deep and slow, and the sound he sighs into Hank's mouth is soft and needy and beautiful. "If you want to, go for it. But there's not a right answer I'm looking for. I'll be there in a sec."

Connor looks dazed just from the kiss, but he nods and pushes Hank towards the back door.

"Buddy," Hank says, while Sumo carefully sniffs every bush and corner in the backyard, "please piss as quickly as you can, so I can take care of Connor before one of us dies of nervousness or from our dicks being too hard or something. Please."

Sumo's response is to mark three different spots in the yard before he decides he's done, but eventually he lumbers back to the door and Hank makes sure his food and water bowls are full before turning his attention to Connor, wherever he might be. 

He's on the couch, rubbing his fingertips along the soft skin of the underside of his wrist and arm.

"How does it feel?" Hank asks. Connor reaches for him and pulls him down next to him, immediately climbing on his lap. Hank should have expected he'd do that first thing, considering how much he enjoyed sitting there already.

"It's an interesting sensation," Connor says. He taps his arm again. "But I think it would feel better if you did it."

Hank takes Connor's wrist in one hand, turning his arm so he can stroke the underside with the other, mirroring Connor's motions. His touch is feather-light, just a whisper of contact, but Connor moans and tenses his thighs at his touch.

"How does it feel?" Hank asks again. "It sounds like you're pretty sensitive, now."

"It's different," Connor says, and he shivers. "I'm not sure how to describe it. I feel the warmth and the pressure, like before, but there's something else."

Hank lifts Connor's arm to his mouth and kisses the inside of his wrist. "It's good, though, right?" he asks, his lips and beard brushing against Connor's skin.

"Y-yes, it's good." He closes his eyes as Hank kisses his arm again. "I didn't think this would be a particularly erogenous area, but maybe my entire body will feel like this."

"I bet some of it will feel even better," Hank says, "so why don't we find out?" He places his hand on the top button of Connor's shirt, waiting for a nod before he slowly unbuttons it, kissing his collarbone when it becomes visible. He lets the shirt drop to the floor and rests his hands around Connor's waist, thumbs gently stroking just under his ribs as he takes in the sight of him. "Look at you, beautiful," he breathes. His chest is scattered with a pale splash of freckles, and he wants to kiss each one of them, map the constellations strewn across his body with his hands. One freckle, slightly larger than the rest, beckons to him from just below Connor's left nipple, and he slides his thumb up to press over it.

The gentle touch pulls another soft sigh from Connor, who preens a little at the attention and leans back just a bit to let Hank get a better look at him. "I hope you'll let me take your clothes off, too," he says. "I want a chance to admire you." 

Hank isn't entirely sure how he'll feel when his clothes come off, but even so he has no desire to refuse Connor anything. "Of course," he says, "but I want to focus on you a little while longer." He pulls Connor close so he can kiss the base of his neck and trail more kisses down his chest.

"Oh!" Connor gasps in surprise when Hank's tongue flicks over a nipple. Before Hank can ask if Connor's response was due to pleasure or oversensitivity, Connor's hands fly to the back of his head and neck and hold him in place. "More of that, please." He tightens his hand in Hank's hair and pulls gently; even that much is enough to make Hank lose focus for a moment. He groans into Connor's chest, and Connor tugs harder.

"Mmm, that's perfect," Hank says, in between soft, wet kisses to Connor's chest, "I like hearing you ask for what you want."

"I want everything," Connor says, almost petulantly. He adjusts his position on Hank's lap, angling himself closer, and Hank feels Connor's erection rub up against his gut. "Can't you feel it?"

"Fuck," Hank moans. One hand slides to Connor's ass, encouraging him to grind against him as much as he wants. "Yeah, I feel you. Do you--"

He's cut off as Connor tugs his head back. "Take me to bed," he says. He kisses Hank messily, almost before he's finished the sentence, and he's pressing in from every direction like he's trying to engulf him, or devour him. "Please. I want--" he takes Hank's earlobe between his teeth and tugs, more sharply than Hank usually likes, but now the pain just feeds the heat of his arousal. "I want my first orgasm to happen in bed, in our bed, and I want it to happen very soon."

"Sounds good," Hank says, because all of that is exactly what he wants too. He's desperate to know what Connor looks like when he comes, what sounds he'll make.

How long it'll be before Hank can make him come again.

Connor slides off Hank's lap and hauls him upright before he can get his feet under himself, pulling him down the hall so quickly he almost stumbles. "You're real eager, huh?" he teases, and Connor turns around, walking backwards now so he can look at Hank, expression deadly serious.

"Hank," he says, "I have been experiencing feelings of sexual desire for months now, with no physical outlet. It's been intensely frustrating." He reaches the bed, pushes Hank onto it, then turns to firmly shut the door. "I want you to keep touching me, please. I want us to take our time with each other, I really do, but first, I just." He unbuttons his pants and steps out of them, approaching the bed where Hank's sitting with his hands on his thighs, watching. 

"What do you want?" Hank asks.

"I don't know," Connor says. "I want too much, I can't--"

"Shhh, come here," Hank says, arms open. Connor approaches the bed, and Hank settles his hands on his hips, teasing at the edge of his underwear. It's not the delicate lace Hank had dreamed up earlier, but Hank has no room to complain; the plain dark gray briefs would be unremarkable except for the fact that they're straining at the front where Connor's cock is hard and eager to be touched. Hank licks his lips and manages to drag his eyes back up to Connor's face. "Do you remember," he asks, "what I said I'd want to do the minute you got home?"

Connor nods. "You wanted to perform oral sex on me."

"That's one way to put it, sure." Hank hooks his thumbs in the waistband and slides it down an inch. He leans in and kisses Connor right below his navel, and Connor shudders and grabs his shoulder. "That sound good to you?"

"Yes," Connor breathes. "I should lie down, though."

"Whatever's most comfortable for you, sure." Hank shifts back and pulls Connor down on the bed with him. He lands on top of Hank and distracts himself by squeezing his soft sides while he kisses him, but soon he's whining and rubbing against Hank's thigh; Hank can tell that whatever patience he possessed at the beginning of the evening is long gone.

"Here," Hank says, and settles Connor against a few pillows at the head of the bed. He settles next to him and slips his fingers into the waistband of his underwear again. "Ready to show off your new toy?" he asks.

Connor just nods, eyes wide and a little wild, and watches as Hank slides them off.

Hank settles his hands on Connor's thighs, as he's wanted to do for longer than he'd ever admit to himself, and takes a moment to admire Connor, naked and wanting, laid out on a nest of pillows for him. "Hi, gorgeous," he says.

Connor just whines and tries to pull Hank closer with his legs. "Admire me later," he huffs. "Touch me now. Please."

"You're the boss," Hank says. He settles himself between Connor's legs and presses his mouth to the mole on his thigh that's been taunting him for days. Connor sighs and moans but clearly has an ideal destination for Hank's attention in mind; he grabs Hank's hair again and guides him to where he's most wanted.

Hank has to admit, as he mouths at the base of Connor's cock and hears a startled gasp in response, that it's a marvel of modern engineering. Not a phrase he ever expected to think just before giving a blowjob, but it really is impressive. It's longer than the width of his hand, he finds when he gives it a few gentle strokes, but his fingers encircle it entirely. There's moisture beading at the tip, and Hank can't help himself; he sucks just the head of Connor's cock into his mouth and licks it off.

The hand in his hair tightens, almost too tightly, but Connor backs off immediately and strokes Hank's head in apology. "Please," he says again.

Hank doesn't want to make him wait any longer. He grasps Connor's free hand in his own and squeezes as he takes more of Connor into his mouth. He doesn't want to rush and wind up choking on it; it's been years since he's had his mouth full of someone else like this, and he needs to take a moment to adjust.

Fuck, it's good, though. Hank loves the feeling of relaxing his jaw, stroking the underside of a cock with his tongue, and figuring out what his partner might enjoy the most. Connor's much more verbal than anyone else Hank's slept with, and he seems to like everything, so this part is fairly easy. It doesn't mean he's not listening, though, trying to figure out what brings out the most enthusiastic reactions.

He lets Connor's cock slip out of his mouth and he peers up at him as he licks it lazily; Connor's eyes are still wide and he looks like he's panting, chest heaving as he watches Hank. He doesn't even look like he's blinking at all, unless he's doing it exactly when Hank does. 

"You doing all right, sweetheart?" Hank asks, before kissing his way down the shaft and nosing gently at his balls. It's a little odd to be in what's usually the muskiest part of a person and not smell much of anything at all, but Connor's general scent, a vague impression of faintly-metallic crispness, is comforting all on its own by now.

Connor doesn't answer, but when Hank peers up at him again, he's nodding. "You just let me know if anything's too much, or if you need me to stop, okay?" Connor nods again, but he doesn't look like he's going to ask Hank to stop any time soon.

Hank has a sudden feeling of being very overdressed; he probably should have at least taken off his pants before getting in bed, and his own cock is almost painfully hard and feels trapped beneath too many layers of fabric and his own weight against the bed. Being fully clothed helps keep his focus on Connor, though; he's getting more than enough pleasure from touching him and coaxing a wonderful range of sounds out of him. He can wait.

He distantly thinks he'd be happy to stay like this for hours: mouth straining slightly to take in all of Connor's cock, hands free to roam over the smooth planes of Connor's body, Connor's hand a firm grip in his hair, keeping him grounded. 

Connor seems to be operating on a very different timeline, though; once Hank takes him into his mouth again, sucking his entire length in now that he's had time to adjust, his fingers pull harder on Hank's hair and he thrusts gently into his mouth.

"If I shut down," Connor says suddenly, amidst the near-constant moans echoing in the bedroom, "don't worry."

Hank finds that statement a little worrisome in itself, but he doesn't have time to think too hard about it; Connor's other hand is thrashing, grabbing at Hank's shirt and the bedsheets and his own leg as the sensations he's feeling become overwhelming. Hank tries to grab it again, to give him something firm to hold on to, but before he can catch it, Connor thrusts twice more into Hank's mouth and gives a strangled shout, almost a scream, as he comes. 

Hank swallows what he can, but his mouth is flooded with more come than he expected; some drips out of his mouth and catches in his beard. It has a faint taste, almost like a strong mineral water with something else he can't place, but any more thoughts along the line of "what does this artificial come taste like?" leave his mind completely when he glances up and sees that Connor does indeed look to be in stasis, or some sort of recovery mode.

"Don't worry," Connor had said, but Hank can't help but worry at least a little bit; he hasn't seen this happen before. Of course, he hasn't seen Connor have an orgasm before, either.

Hank settles himself next to Connor on the nest of pillows at the head of the bed and wraps his arms around him; hopefully that way whenever he comes to, he'll still be able to bask in the afterglow. He doesn't know if Connor can hear or feel him, but he strokes Connor's arm and quietly murmurs in his ear how beautiful he looked, how sweet he sounded, and how much he wants to do that again. He'll be happy to tell Connor again when he wakes up, if he doesn't hear it the first time.

It's only a couple minutes later, while Hank's telling Connor how fucking good he felt in his mouth, that Connor twitches and his LED changes from the slow pulse of stasis to a steadier glow. He opens his eyes and rolls over to face Hank with a sweet, languid smile on his lips.

"Mmm, I heard all of that," he says, and nuzzles into Hank's neck. "I'm glad you enjoyed yourself."

"Of course I did," Hank says; surely that fact wasn't ever in question. "Are you all right? Was that supposed to happen?"

"I'm fine," Connor says. "That shouldn't occur often, if at all, in the future; orgasm can overload our systems if we haven't made allowances in resource allotment for it, or if we have a large number in a short period of time. I wasn't prepared for how intense my own climax would be, or how many of my processes would be dedicated to experiencing it, but in the future I'll be able to handle it much more easily."

"I have to say, though," he continues, slotting a thigh between Hank's legs and nudging it against Hank's erection, which had flagged slightly but is very quickly coming back to full hardness now that Connor's awake and clearly okay, "the fact that I experienced an orgasm so intense I briefly shut down to deal with the data overload is, in itself, intensely arousing."

"Is it?" The last week has taught Hank that Connor gets turned on by a lot of things, but he hadn't expected "came so hard I had to reboot" to be one of them.

"Yes," Connor sighs dreamily. "Hank, the way you touched me..." he trails off and grabs Hank's hip, holding him in place while he rubs his thigh more deliberately against Hank's cock. "I want more."

Hank can't help but moan and shift his hips in response, seeking more friction. "You want to go again right now?" he asks. "I'm up for it, I just thought maybe you'd need more rest." 

"I have no refractory period," Connor says, and Hank notices his smile's turned sharper now. More predatory. "I can get overstimulated, I believe, but beyond that there's nothing stopping me from continuing sexual activity indefinitely." He tugs at the hem of Hank's shirt. "I'd like to take my time with you."

Hank realizes Connor was serious when he said he wasn't going to let him out of the bedroom much this weekend.

"Be my guest," Hank says. "Take all the time you want, I'm not going anywhere." He reaches between them and cups his hand over Connor's cock, which is indeed hard again already. Connor makes a soft, needy sound and Hank kisses his neck, then his ear. "You sure you don't want me to get you off again first, though?" he asks, his voice a low rumble. He keeps kissing Connor's neck as he gives his cock a few slow, gentle strokes, just enough to tease. 

"We've still got a lot of things to try that you might like."

"Hank, I--ahh! I'd like to..." Connor trails off and tilts his head back, baring more of his neck for Hank to lavish attention on. Hank scrapes his teeth gently over the delicate skin above Connor's collarbones.

"You're distracting me," Connor says, fixing Hank with what Hank thinks is meant to be an accusatory look, although he just looks intensely turned on. Like he wants to swallow Hank whole.

"I'm not trying to distract you, honey, I just want you to feel good."

"I'll feel better when I get your clothes off," Connor says; he extracts himself from Hank's embrace enough to roll him on his back and starts undoing his belt.

"Anything to make you feel better," Hank replies; he helps Connor tug off his pants, then sits up enough to let him pull off his shirt more easily. Connor licks his lips and slowly, reverently, eases his boxers off and dumps them unceremoniously behind him at the foot of the bed. His LED flashes yellow as his gaze travels over Hank's body, silently taking everything in.

Hank has never felt so closely scrutinized in his life, and fights the urge to curl in on himself. He's not quite been trying to avoid this, not really, but during sex it's always been easier for him to see someone else's body as desirable, or as the focal point of pleasure, than his own, even back when he felt he had more to offer. Now that things are out in the open between them, Connor's been very clear about his attraction to Hank, but some feelings are hard to shake. He doesn't want to be a disappointment, in this or any other area.

"Does everything live up to all those scans you took?" he asks, because it's easier to make a weak joke than admit how vulnerable he feels.

"I need to take a closer look to be sure," Connor says, but he doesn't move from his position next to Hank, as if he's frozen in place.

Hank wonders if this is like before, when Connor wanted so much he couldn't articulate any particular desire, and decides to nudge him along a little. He takes his cock in hand, softly grunting at the rush of pleasure it brings. He feels like he's been hard for hours, although of course it hasn't been that long, but he's been mostly ignoring his own arousal; there's a delicious relief in attending to it now, even if it's mostly to draw Connor's attention.

It definitely does the trick.

"You can look all you want," Hank says, trying to project more comfort on being so on display, so intently watched, than he feels, "but you can touch, too." He jerks himself slowly, sliding his foreskin over the head of his cock and back again. "I want you to, Connor, please." He taps his shoulder. "Maybe you could mark me up again?" 

Those are the magic words, apparently. Connor makes a small, almost staticky sound in the back of his throat before he launches himself forward and on top of Hank.

Connor latches onto Hank's shoulder with a moan, sucking a dark bruise into the spot Hank had indicated. "I can finally do this," he says, and Hank isn't sure if he's trying to engage in conversation or just reminding himself.

"Sure can," Hank says. "As much as you want." He pulls Connor close, petting his hair as he kisses and nips at Hank's neck and shoulders. Every sharp touch of his teeth is another rush of heat to his cock; he doesn't care if he's covered in obvious bite marks come Monday, he'll figure something out. It feels too good to ask Connor to be careful, and the wild desperation with which he lavishes attention on Hank has him so caught up in it that he isn't sure he could string the words together if he did want to say something.

Unsurprisingly, given the number of times he faceplanted directly on it this past week, Connor's attention shifts to Hank's chest before long. He nuzzles into the thickest part of Hank's chest hair, then licks his way over to one nipple. His mouth hovers over it, but before he makes contact he glances up at Hank, a concerned expression on his face.

"Should I bite less hard here than I did elsewhere?" he asks, fingering a spot on Hank's shoulder that's already tender and turning red. Just the feel of Connor's fingers pressing down on the bite makes Hank groan embarrassingly loudly.

"Probably," he manages to say, although the thought of Connor biting down like a sentient nipple clamp isn't exactly unappealing. "You gotta ease me into it at least, okay?"

"Mmm," Connor agrees, then licks over the nipple, making his tongue flat and soft. No real pressure, just warmth and wetness.

"Christ," Hank breathes, and his leg jolts as if he's been shocked. Connor clenches around his thigh more tightly and rocks against him as he moves.

"More than that?" Connor asks.

"Yeah," Hank manages, and after that comes what he could only think of, later, as a finely-crafted nipple experiment, of sorts; Connor pinches them gently, kisses and licks all around them, scrapes his teeth against them, and eventually does bite down nearly as hard as he had on Hank's shoulders. He's pretty sure Connor's monitoring his heart rate, or his dick hardness level, or something, because after a few minutes every touch is exactly what he wants. Connor keeps an intent watch over Hank's reactions the entire time, although his focus seems to slip when Hank's thigh presses between his legs.

"How you doing, sweetheart?" Hank asks, tangling a hand in Connor's hair.

Connor just moans and leans into Hank's touch, closing his eyes and nuzzling Hank's hand while his own hands roam down Hank's sides, coming to rest on either side of his navel as he sits up slightly. "Every part of you feels amazing," he says. "Could you--" he trails off, as if he lost the thread of the question the moment he started to ask it.

Before Hank can ask what Connor wants him to do--because in this moment he can't think of anything he wants more than say yes to whatever Connor asks of him--Connor lifts Hank's hand from where it's stroking his hair and slips two fingers into his mouth. His eyes flutter shut as he sighs in pleasure. 

"Fuck," Hank says, the word almost punched out of him in his surprise. The inside of Connor's mouth is so warm, his saliva thick and slippery where he sucks and licks over the pads of Hank's fingers. Hank can't look away, and Connor opens his eyes and holds Hank's gaze as he slides his fingers nearly all the way out and sucks them back in.

Hank pushes down against Connor's tongue, just a little, and Connor whines around his fingers. He squeezes Hank's wrist before letting it go, and Hank gets the message; he slides his fingers in and out of Connor's mouth slowly while Connor curls his tongue against them and sucks, making soft, needy sounds.

"Holy shit," Hank breathes. He can't stop staring at Connor's mouth, stretched around his fingers, and as he slides them nearly all the way out he sees a drop of saliva trickle down Connor's chin. "You're really enjoying this, aren't you?" he asks, and Connor nods and moans in agreement. "Fuck, if you think this is good," he says, "how much more are you gonna like it when you suck me off?" Connor closes his eyes and moans louder. He shifts higher on Hank's thigh, turning until one knee just barely nudges against Hank's balls and his cock brushes against the soft underside of Hank's gut.

Hank has the distant thought that maybe he should be embarrassed that he's big enough Connor can rub up against him like this, but in the moment it feels too fucking good for him to care. Connor likes it, so maybe that should be enough.

"You want another finger, honey?" Hank asks. Connor nods and opens his mouth, and once the third finger passes his lips, he sucks on it greedily. "There you go," Hank murmurs. "You need to get used to having something bigger in your mouth if you want my cock in there eventually."

Connor makes a low sound, almost a growl, and grabs Hank's hips with a surprising amount of force, pinning them to the bed as he rocks against his belly and sucks his fingers as far down his throat as he can.

"Christ, Connor," Hank says in surprise, "are you going to--" but the answer to his question becomes clear when Connor cries out, muffled by Hank's fingers in his mouth, and comes again.

He doesn't go dark this time, much to Hank's relief; even if it is normal, he feels better not having Connor lose consciousness for any amount of time. Instead, he sighs and lets Hank's fingers slip out of his mouth, making sure to kiss his fingertips as they withdraw, then slumps forward to rest his forehead against Hank's.

"I didn't mean to," he says, once he's had a moment to compose himself. "I just...your hand distracted me, and then I suppose I got carried away."

"Are you apologizing right now?" Hank asks. "Because fuck, Connor, that wasn't anything to apologize for."

"I was trying to focus on you," Connor says. "It feels selfish, to have two orgasms before you've had one."

"You think I don't love watching you enjoy yourself?" Hank asks. "You come as many times as you want. I can be patient."

When Connor kisses him, it's less frenzied than before, but no less enthusiastic. Connor licks into Hank's mouth, sucks at his tongue, pulls at his lower lip with his teeth. He wraps himself around Hank like a living blanket, as if he's trying to touch as much of him at once as he possibly can. "I think I might come again," he says, in between kisses. He buries a hand in Hank's hair, holding him still. He can't draw his gaze from Connor's beautiful mouth. "It wouldn't take much, Hank, you're gorgeous, so soft and warm and solid. I think I could do it again just touching you like this. Admiring your body. Listening to your voice."

Hank's very out of practice, when it comes to dirty talk, but it's a skill he's willing to brush up on, if need be. A few previous partners had liked his voice in bed, so he'd lost of the worst of the embarrassment he used to feel years ago. "You want me to talk to you, some?" he asks, pitching his voice low. "Tell you how sweet you look? What I'm thinking about right now?"

"Ohh," Connor sighs. "Hank, yes, tell me what you want."

Connor's still hard, rubbing himself lazily against the slick patch of his own come on Hank's gut. Hank thinks about the bag Connor brought home, the six-month supply of artificial semen, and imagines Connor coming again and again, covering him in it, stopping only to top up his supply when he runs low. "How fast do you think you'll run through those refills they sent you home with, honey, if you can't control yourself? If rubbing off on me while I shove my fingers in your mouth is all it takes?"

Connor moans at the mention of his fingers.

"I bet you want them back in your mouth again."

Connor nods and kisses Hank messily. "It's overwhelming," he says, "having you in my mouth. I'm so sensitive."

"You think that's overwhelming?" Hank asks. "Give me your hand." He covers Connor's hand with his own, lacing their fingers together, then guides it down to his cock. "Fuck, that's good, sweetheart," he groans, as Connor wraps his hand around it. "You feel that?" He thrusts up into their joined hands and squeezes Connor's hand a bit so he tightens his grip.

"Haaank," Connor sighs into his neck. "You feel amazing."

"Yeah?" Hank turns his head so his lips are brushing against Connor's ear as he speaks. "Think how good I'll feel in your mouth," he murmurs, and Connor shivers. 'You think you can handle me? You took three fingers like a champ, but you know my cock's bigger than that, right?"

"I scanned it in--in precise detail," Connor reminds him, as if Hank could forget that particular fact. "I know it's bigger. But feeling you..." he trails off, speeding the roll of his hips against Hank to match the pace of their hands along his cock.

"You'll fill my mouth completely," he says, eventually. "I don't need to breathe, Hank, I can take you as deep as you want me to." 

"Jesus," Hank says. "You wanna show me?" He's fine talking Connor through this in a hypothetical sense, but he won't say no if Connor wants to get his mouth on him, either. He's a little afraid of how much he wants it.

"Yes, yes, I want to," Connor pants against him, his breath a hot puff of air on his skin. Hank wonders if he's venting extra heat. "I've given a lot of thought to this."

"Hmm, have you? Did you spend your time at night thinking about getting your hands on me? Stuffing your mouth full of my cock?"

"I thought about it constantly," Connor whines, "and I couldn't--Hank, I couldn't touch myself in any way that helped, I just felt it all, and wanted and wanted you."

"You're here now, honey," Hank says, "and you can do anything you like to me."

"Anything," Connor echoes. "I like that." 

Hank hopes Connor understands what he means by it: that he trusts Connor enough to be willing to try anything once with him, that he feels safe with him, that he finds Connor's desires, and his willingness to discuss them, incredibly hot, that he's just so goddamn happy Connor wants him at all. That there's something deeply satisfying about seeing Connor lead with what he wants, and possibly something else underneath that, a desire to let Connor take control more deliberately, that Hank hasn't quite examined yet.

More simply than that: he likes that Connor likes it.

Connor kisses his way down Hank's body, making sure to leave a handful of new, darkening marks as he does so. He eyes the bead of precome at the tip of Hank's cock and makes a hungry, needy sound; the moment he licks it up his eyes roll back and the moan gets deeper. His LED flashes rapidly, as if he's processing a large amount of information.

"Is it good?" Hank asks. "Do your sensors like that?"

Connor nods. "I might...Hank, you taste so good, I can't--" he gives up on trying to speak, licks his lips, and settles in to take him in completely.

When he finally sucks the head of Hank's cock into his mouth, it's so warm and slick that Hank has to concentrate to keep from thrusting up into it. Maybe that's what Connor will want, eventually, but whether he has a gag reflex or not, it seems rude to just go straight to that.

"Oh, Connor," Hank can't help but groan at the feel of it. He sits up a bit, grabs another pillow to prop behind him so he can more easily watch Connor at work. "Sweetheart, you're amazing."

Connor lifts a hand from Hank's hip and Hank grabs for it, interlacing their fingers. "You're doing so good," he says. "Christ, look at you."

He's a delicious sight, sprawled out between Hank's thighs, lips stretched obscenely around Hank's cock as he slowly works more and more of it into his mouth. He opens his eyes when Hank squeezes his hand, but with every throb of his cock or gentle roll of his hips, they flutter closed again.

"I'm--ohhh--" Connor pulls off for just a moment, murmuring small, quiet words as he mouths and licks at Hank's cock.

"You gonna come again?" Hank asks, rubbing Connor's wrist with his thumb. 

Connor whines an affirmative noise as he takes him in his mouth again, swallowing as much as he can before his mouth goes momentarily slack as his LED stutters and cycles through to red. He sighs and shakes, hand grasping at Hank's, until he comes back to himself, at which point he immediately starts sucking again; it's clear that his orgasm hasn't dampened his enthusiasm one bit. If anything, it feels like it's intensified it.

"Holy shit," Hank says. "You're so good, coming just from this." He cups the back of Connor's head with his free hand, not holding him down but offering a reassuring pressure, and Connor whines louder and presses against it, then back down again.

"You want me to hold you here?" Hank asks. 

Connor nods, as much as he can. 

"You want me to fuck your mouth, honey?"

Connor nearly sobs around his cock, which seems like as enthusiastic of a yes as Hank can get at the moment.

"You squeeze my hand if you want me to stop, all right?" Another affirmative noise, although it sounds a little impatient.

Hank plants his feet flat on the bed and thrusts up into Connor's mouth, tentatively at first and then with more force, as he hears the pleased sounds Connor makes with every thrust.

"I haven't come in days," Hank grits out. "Not since Sunday, and I'm not gonna last too long because you feel so good, just fucking amazing, and you're taking all of me." He makes eye contact with Connor, who has saliva dripping steadily out of his mouth now, too far gone and too stretched open to care about making a mess.

Hank wants to see how messy he can get.

"In your mouth or--oh fuck--on your face?" he asks, panting.

Connor lifts himself off of Hank's cock just long enough to say "come in my mouth," voice slurred and rough, before sinking back down again, swallowing until Hank can feel the head off his cock nudge against the back of his throat. Bless Connor for giving a clear answer, Hank thinks.

Connor's shown no sign of discomfort or choking--on the contrary, the rougher the snap of Hank's hips and the harder he fucks Connor's mouth, the happier he seems--so Hank drops the last bit of restraint he's been holding onto all evening. His thrusts up into the slick warmth of Connor's mouth become more erratic as he feels his climax rapidly approaching, and Connor's eyes roll back in his head. He makes what sounds like a pleading noise in the back of his throat, getting more and more intense the faster Hank moves beneath him, and Hank grunts and moans his name in reply.

"Look at me, honey, please," Hank asks, tugging gently at Connor's unruly hair, and the look he gives him, heavy-lidded, drunk on pleasure, and full of a terrifying amount of affection, is enough to send Hank careening over the edge at last; he bucks up into Connor's perfect mouth twice more before coming with an incoherent shout. 

Connor holds his gaze through it all, which is overwhelmingly intimate in a way Hank hasn't experienced before, but neither of them want to look away. Connor does his best to swallow all of what Hank gives him, but some of it leaks from his mouth; when he finally lets Hank's softening cock slide from between his lips, there's a thick smear of come across his cheek and chin.

"You're a mess," Hank murmurs.

"Mmm. It's your mess," Connor sighs, voice still thick with desire, and flicks his tongue out to lick up what he can reach. His LED's already stuttering wildly, and when Hank wipes Connor's face clean with his thumb and sticks it back in Connor's mouth, that's enough to make the light blink from amber to red as Connor slumps down onto Hank's thighs, where he passes out once again.

"Holy shit, baby," Hank says to the now-quiet room. "If you're like this every time, you are gonna wear me the fuck out." He settles back into the pillows and lets himself drift a bit, absently stroking Connor's hair with the hand that isn't currently in his mouth. He knows he could pull it out, but he suspects Connor will be happy if he comes out of stasis with his thumb still in there, and, well. That's a good enough reason to keep it there, isn't it?

Connor's in stasis for longer, this time, although Hank suspects it's only about fifteen minutes later when he starts to stir. He wants to say something, when he sees Connor open his eyes, but he can't find any words to put to what he's feeling; he just stares at Connor blissfully using his thigh for a pillow and smiles. 

Maybe Connor's similarly at a loss for words, because he stares back for a long moment, eyes gentle and soft. He kisses the pad of Hank's thumb after sliding it out of his mouth, then curls up next to him on the pillows at the head of the bed. He snuggles in close, head resting on Hank's chest and arm slung across his belly, and makes a soft, satisfied sound as he wiggles into the most comfortable position.

"I thought I was prepared," Connor says, finally. "That I understood the shape of the desire I felt, even if I couldn't experience the physical culmination of it."

"And now?" Hank rubs a palm across Connor's back, marveling at how soft his synthetic skin feels. How neatly he fits next to him. 

"I don't think any preconstruction could have truly prepared me for how intense it felt--how it feels--to be this close to you. To experience sexual intimacy. I'm still aroused, Hank, extremely so, but I think I need a rest before engaging in further sexual activity."

"You and me both, hotshot," Hank says, pressing a kiss to Connor's forehead. "I don't think I'll be good for another round tonight, just so you know. But all of this, tonight." He gestures at the bed, at Connor curled into him. "This was good for you, yeah?"

"Hank, I was able to experience orgasm for the first time and see you naked. I was able to touch you in so many of the ways I'd imagined, and it was much more satisfying to experience than just to think about it. I--" he grabs Hank's arm and wraps it tightly around him. "I felt so close to you, Hank. So safe. I was experiencing something intense and overwhelming and you took care of me."

"I just wanted you to feel good," Hank protests. He didn't do anything beyond what anyone would want to do, being someone's first sexual experience, right?

"Shh," Connor says, placing a hand over Hank's mouth. "I'm complimenting you." Hank grumbles briefly under Connor's hand, but gives up when it doesn't move away.

"You're gorgeous, Hank, and a generous lover, and swallowing your ejaculate was somehow a more erotic experience than I'd thought it would be. And it was the third most common sexual fantasy I experienced over the last several weeks, so as you might imagine, I already had high expectations."

"Nmmmrrrrffff?" Hank mumbles, through Connor's palm. Connor finally removes his hand, and he tries again. "If that was the third most common fantasy, you want to tell me what the first two were?"

"Next time," Connor promises.

"I'll remind you," Hank says. "I want to know these things about you." He repositions his leg, flexing it to work out some stiffness in his knee, and grimaces when it lands in a cold, wet patch on the bedsheets. "Ugh, all right. I should shower and, uh, change out the sheets so I'm not sleeping in the wet spot tonight." He starts to get up, but Connor grabs his arm again and holds him in place.

"Are you sure you need to shower?" Connor asks.

"Well, yeah," Hank says. "I'm all sweaty and you came on me a couple times, remember?"

"I like your sweat," Connor says, pouting. "You don't need to wash it off for my sake."

"You're so gross," Hank grumbles, but he hopes Connor can tell he doesn't mean it. "I'll feel better if I clean up, but it's still the middle of summer, so I'll be sweaty and disgusting again before you know it." 

"Good," Connor replies, his face buried in Hank's chest hair. 

"You want to hop in the shower with me?"

"Technically, I don't need to shower in order to keep clean," Connor says, but he trails off and contemplates Hank's body thoughtfully as his hand traces abstract patterns just above his navel. "However, I could assist you, and I'm sure it wouldn't hurt to take additional care in cleaning myself."

"Just say you want a chance to grope me in the shower," Hank grouses, as he climbs out of bed.

"I want a chance to grope you in the shower," Connor replies.

Connor does lavish attention on Hank in the shower, making sure to soap (and re-soap) every inch of him until the hot water starts to run out. Hank's too relaxed to kick up a fuss about wasting water or the amount of time Connor spends soaping his thighs, and as they towel off afterwards he realizes his relaxation is bleeding into tiredness, even though it isn't particularly late.

"I was gonna watch tv for a bit, but maybe I'll just read in bed until I fall asleep," he says, as he watches Connor put his corgi pajamas on. He looks as cute in them as he has all week, but Hank can appreciate them even more when he thinks about peeling them off him in the morning. "That sound good?" He wraps his arms around Connor from behind and nuzzles into his hair. "Hopefully you won't be too disappointed by how tired us regular humans get after sex, since you can just go forever, but I'm pretty fucking tired right now."

"I don't think I will," Connor says. "There are ways we could be intimate without you having to put much work in, you know, but I'm aware of the differences in our physiology and I don't expect you to have the same sort of sexual stamina that I do."

"I mean," Hank says, feeling himself blush and trying to save face a little, "my stamina isn't terrible or anything."

"Of course not."

"It's just not. Not like yours."

"Hank, there's no need to be embarrassed," Connor says. "I'm sure that when you're well-rested and we have the entire day ahead of us tomorrow, I'll be quite impressed by your stamina." He kisses Hank deeply, sliding off his towel to grab at his ass. "But if you do need a break, I want you to know I'll be happy to take care of you."

No need to worry about me," Hank says, although the thought of Connor turning the intensity of his focus on him is both unnerving and tempting. Something for him to consider in more detail later. He steps away from Connor's still-groping hand and goes to retrieve some clothes from the bedroom. "I'm going to let the pup back out in the yard for a bit, and then I'll meet you in bed, if you want to keep me company."

Connor does, of course, want to keep Hank company; he's lounging on the bed when Hank returns from his backyard jaunt with Sumo. "I'm communicating with some friends from my Wednesday night group, if that's all right," he says, tapping his LED.

"Of course it's all right," Hank says, as he settles in bed with his book. "Why wouldn't it be?" He holds an arm out and beckons him closer. "You wanna scoot over here with me?"

Connor tucks himself under Hank's arm and leans into him. "They're all interested in hearing about my experience with the sexual enhancements," he says. "Some of them are curious because they are thinking about getting the procedure done themselves, and, well. I think Lukas is just part of the conversation because, ah..."

"Because he's Lukas?" Hank offers.

"Yes," Connor says, with a laugh. "You could say he's a little nosy, I suppose."

"A little? The guy practically interrogated me about how big a dick I like when I'd known him for two minutes. I like him, don't get me wrong, but he is supremely nosy."

"That's fair," Connor says. "I have already had to remind him that I'm not going to share any of your personal measurements with him." Hank raises an eyebrow at that, but decides not to comment; he can't say he's surprised, really. "Anyway," Connor continues, "I hope you don't mind if I share some of my experiences with them. I understand if it's something you'd rather have me keep private, though."

"Nah, go for it," Hank says. He hugs Connor closer and kisses his temple. "I mean, it's good to have people you can talk about all this with who aren't me. Maybe you don't need to tell them everything, but if you had a good enough time that you want to brag to your friends about it, I take it as a compliment, you know?"

"It's all very complimentary, I assure you," Connor says in a low voice. His hand curves around to rest on Hank's hip as he curls in closer, half-draped over his body. He's silent for a few minutes as his conversation continues, and Hank digs back into a cozy mystery he'd started that week, holding Connor close as he reads.

Eventually, Hank feels his eyes get heavier and heavier; he flops his paperback on the bedside table and reaches for the light. "You still chatting?"

"We're just wrapping up. Lukas tells me I have good taste in men, so I think he finds you attractive."

Hank isn't sure why, although he knows Connor doesn't want to hear him say that kind of thing so he keeps it to himself. "Tell him thanks for the compliment, I guess? I don't care about anyone's opinion but yours, though."

"I know I have good taste in men," Connor says smugly. "I don't need anyone else to tell me that when the proof is right here. He also said he's glad you figured things out, and wanted me to let you know."

"Not as glad as I am," Hank mumbles, face burning from the compliment. He wraps his arms around Connor and tucks his head under his chin. "Thanks for letting me be part of, uh. The whole process of getting acquainted with all your new equipment."

"Of course I want you to be a part of it," Connor says. "It wouldn't mean as much to me as it does if you weren't here for it. There's still a lot for me to test out and get accustomed to, though. I'll need your help with further exploration tomorrow."

Hank feels like he's being recruited for a science experiment, but hell, he'll happily take part in this one. "How many times you think you can come in one day? Think we can use up one of those refill bottles by the end of the weekend?"

"We can try," Conor says, tilting his head back for a soft kiss before snuggling back against Hank's chest.

"Guess I'd better get to sleep, keep my strength up." Hank's halfway there already, comforted by Connor's presence next to him. Hemhears Connor say something, too quiet to make out individual words, but it feels warm and loving all the same. He knows it's something sweet, and meant for him.

The faint thrum of Connor's biocomponents, more felt than heard when pressed so close, lulls him to sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

When Hank thinks about that next day, weeks and months and years in the future, he remembers it as a series of images, the most intense moments standing out as if they were photographed by someone else, sharp and clear and easy to re-examine whenever he wants. 

He remembers spending the morning tangled in the sheets with Connor, lazily making out with their hands clasped tightly together, discovering that Connor loves having his feet and scalp massaged, how embarrassingly loudly he whined when Connor tugged his hair roughly while he gave him anotherblowjob, and how good it felt to have Connor lose control and come in his mouth again.

He remembers how Connor begged Hank to fuck his thighs, and how he lavished them with kisses before he spread lube between them. How Connor cupped his hand so that he rubbed and squeezed the head of Hank's cock when he thrust hard enough that it peeked out between Connor's thighs, and how he used Hank's come to slick up his own cock and jerk himself off as Hank lay flushed and panting behind him.

He remembers the mid-afternoon drone delivery of electrolyte drinks and snacks that Connor ordered, to "keep his strength up" for the rest of the evening. Hank may have grumbled at the insinuation that he needed any of it, but truth be told he felt much more prepared to keep testing the upper limit of Connor's orgasm capabilities after chugging some gatorade and munching through a few peanut butter granola bars.

Perhaps his favorite memory from that day is the moment when he has Connor seated between his spread legs, leaning back against Hank's chest and slowly touching himself. Hank wraps his arms around Connor, holding him close while he kisses his neck and murmurs sweet nothings into his ear. "You're beautiful," he tells him, in between kisses. "So sweet for me. My sweet Connor." Connor's crying by the time he comes, and to his surprise, Hank is too.

They spend a long time curled up together on the bed after that, not talking but not sleeping either; just touching each other gently and chastely, trading forehead kisses, and soaking up each others' presence.

Hank finally gets the chance to ask Connor the question he's been turning over in his mind for days when the sun goes down and they drag themselves apart from each other enough to dress and take poor Sumo, who's been very patiently dealing with only the briefest of bathroom  
breaks in the back yard for a day and a half, for a long walk Saturday night. 

"I've been wondering," he starts hesitantly, once they're a few blocks from the house. "How much does my house feel like home to you?"

"I've never had another home," Connor says, "so I can't compare it to anything, but it feels as much like home as a place can, I think. Why do you ask?

"When you moved in, you didn't have a lot of options, and then once you did, we never talked about it. I...for a while, I was afraid you'd leave. That you'd see more of the world, meet more  
people, and decide that some of them suited you better than I did, or that you wanted to live alone."

His words feel clumsy as they tumble out of his mouth; nothing he's saying sounds quite right. "Connor, I want you to stay, but I want it to be because you chose it, not just because that's what we've always done. And I don't ever want to you feel like you're a guest, or an imposition, or anything else. I want you to feel like it's your space too. If that's. If that's what you want."

"Of course it is," Connor says, eyes bright. "Isn't it obvious?"

"Maybe it's clearer now than it was a few weeks ago," Hank admits. "But I have to ask. It's important."

"It is," Connor agrees. He takes Hank's arm and leans into him as they continue down the dark street. Sumo eyes a squirrel warily but decides not to give chase; he just whuffs at it and moves on.

"I think I understand why you're asking now," Connor says, after a few minutes of silence. "Things have changed between us in the past week, so it makes sense to revisit other aspects of our relationship and living situation as well."

"The thing is," Hank says, quietly, "I'm not good at talking about shit that matters. Never have been. I wanted to get better, when--" He takes a deep breath, holds it for a few seconds. Lets it rush out with a sigh. "Anyway, I don't want to use it as an excuse, that I've always been lousy at  
this stuff. You're too important, Connor, for me to ruin things because I can't bring myself to say what I'm thinking."

"And I've been thinking a lot," he continues, sliding his arm around Connor's waist and resting his hand on the slight curve of his hip, "about how I want you to feel like you have an equal stake in everything. That my home is yours too, to get comfortable in. That the bedroom, the bed, is ours. Not my space I'm inviting you into at night, you know?"

Connor leans his head into Hank's shoulder as they walk. It's a hot and humid evening, and Hank feels his entire body prickling with sweat, but it still feels good to have Connor pressed up close to him, even if it just makes him hotter. "Our bed," he says, as if he's testing the weight of the words. Hank's heard him say it already, but it sounds different, now.

"That's certainly how I've been thinking about it, but yes, it's good to know you feel this way." They're stopped for the moment, as Sumo sniffs at a particularly interesting maple tree, and he gently tugs Hank's beard to pull him in for a kiss. "Is there anything you have in mind, when you say you want me to get comfortable?Beyond what I've done, already?"

"Nothing specific, I guess, I just want you to feel free to do what you want, without feeling like you're overstepping. Buy some plants. Hang up photographs you like. Put your things in my closet."

"I like the idea of houseplants," Connor says, thoughtfully. Hank had figured he would; Connor fussed over the dahlias all week and had seemed pretty disappointed when they were too wilted to keep. He was already wondering how soon would be too soon to come home with some more, but maybe something more permanent would be even better. 

"Want to come to the nursery with me sometime soon, and you can pick some out?" Hank asks. "It doesn't have to be plants, just. I want you to feel like you can bring in shit you like, move things around, whatever. Since it's your space too."

"That sounds lovely," Connor replies. "You're so thoughtful, Hank."

Hank's already red from the heat but he feels himself flush further. "It's no more than you deserve."

"Hmmm," Connor says. He lets Sumo pull him a few steps ahead, then turns and gives Hank  
a long, appraising look. Hank's red-faced and sweating through his shirt, but Connor still looks at him with an intense, hungry gaze that leaves Hank with no doubts about what he's thinking. Before Connor, he thought undressing someone with one's eyes was just a saying, an exaggerated description of a lustful stare, but nope, that's absolutely what Connor's doing to him right now. He's equal parts uncomfortable and turned on.

"What else do I deserve?" Connor asks. "Do I deserve to have you take me to bed as soon as we get home?"

There's only one way to answer that, Hank thinks; he whistles for Sumo and turns around to take the shortest route back. Sumo drags Connor along as he trots to catch up with Hank, and Connor's startled laughter echoes in the quiet street.

"I never told you the sexual fantasies I've thought of most often, recently," Connor says, calm as can be, while Hank's finishing breakfast the next morning.

Hank nearly chokes on his coffee in surprise, but manages to swallow without incident. "Are you saying that because you want to tell me now?" he asks. Fuck, he sure hopes so. 

Hank's done a pretty good job, he thinks, helping Connor explore what he enjoys sexually over the past couple days. He's learned a lot about what makes Connor tick, although he knows there has to be even more he's still missing, or that Connor himself hasn't quite sorted out yet. He appreciates how eager Connor's been, and how responsive he is every time Hank touches him. It's easy to feel like he's really taking care of Connor, treating him just as well as he deserves, when every touch is met with a sigh or moan or an answering kiss. Hank wants to know anything that will draw more of those sounds out of him, what else he can do to make Connor's eyes heavy and hooded with desire. 

"There's one thing I'd like to ask about," Connor says. His voice is soft, almost hesitant, but his gaze is intent. Hank already feels pinned in place. "Maybe I'll save the other for later, but. Something's been on my mind for a while, now."

Hank reaches across the table and takes Connor's hand in his own. "I'm listening."

"I want to have you," Connor says.

 _Of course you have me_ , Hank thinks, but Connor continues before he has a chance to say it.

"I want to undress you slowly. Arrange you on the bed, where I can look at you as long as I like and touch you however I please. I want to admire you. Tell you how gorgeous you are." Hank winces at this, just a little, and he hopes it wasn't enough for Connor to see. That part might be harder.

"In my fantasy, you wouldn't be able to argue with any of it," he continues, and that answers Hank's question: his flinch hasn't escaped Connor's notice. 

"You'd listen to me say everything I think when I look at your body, when I touch you, and you'd let me. I think I'd--" Connor licks his lips and shifts his weight impatiently in the chair. "I'd like you to ask me to let you come."

"Shit, yeah, that's. Yes."

"Hank, do you enjoy having your prostate stimulated?"

Hank's mouth is suddenly very dry. "Been a while since anyone's been up there, but. Yeah."

He figures Connor's going to ask if he can fuck him, which Hank is absolutely ready to say yes to, but Connor flexes his fingers in Hank's grip. "My manual sensors are so sensitive," he says, and Hank can't help himself. He brings Connor's hand to his mouth and kisses each fingertip in turn.

"You want these inside me?" he asks.

Connor nods.

"That sounds perfect," Hank says. "All of it." He sucks Connor's first two fingers into his mouth.

"I don't have to leave for several hours," Connor purrs. His eyes flutter as Hank strokes his tongue along the whorls of Connor's artificial fingerprints."There's plenty of--ahh--time for me to enjoy you." He says "enjoy" like Hank's a luscious dessert he can't wait to devour.

Hank scrapes his teeth gently against Connor's fingertips as he slides them out of his mouth, and enjoys the gasp and yellow stutter of his LED as he does so. "Well shit, honey," he says. "We just got out of bed but there's no reason we can't just hop back in, if you want."

"You haven't finished your breakfast," Connor says, and Hank shrugs and takes a large bite of his last piece of toast, holding it in his mouth as he takes his plate and mug to the sink.

"Close enough," he says with a wink. "I'm gonna hop in the shower real quick, okay? I'll meet  
you in there in a minute."

Connor looks like he's going to start pouting at the mention of a shower, but Hank shakes his head. "If you're going to fuss over me like that, let me freshen up first, all right? I'll feel better." He wraps a hand around the back of Connor's neck and squeezes gently. "You can do what you like with me after that, I promise."

"Can you get dressed again, when you're done?" Connor calls out, when he's halfway down the hall.

"What, so you can undress me?"

"It's an important aspect of the fantasy," Connor says. "I'd appreciate it.

Hank isn't sure how dressed Connor wants him, but he grabs his jeans and a clean shirt out of the closet, just to be safe. If Connor then says he's overdressed, he has only himself to blame for not being specific enough.

Anticipation thrums through Hank as he speeds through a shower, trying to wash himself as thoroughly and as quickly as possible. If he thinks too hard about what Connor wants, he knows he'll get nervous, so he tries to keep his mind focused on the most basic component of it: Connor wants to focus on him for a bit. Probably tease him for a while. Get his beautiful, long fingers--god, Hank's hard just thinking about them--deep inside him. Tell him--

This is where Hank loses the plot, a little. He can accept Connor wanting to take him apart. He gets it, because fuck, he's been loving doing that for Connor. It's beautiful to see him overcome with pleasure, over and over again, and to know he had a hand in it. That he gets to be the one to see Connor like that. He can understand the appeal of being in that position, even if he feels much less appealing, overall.

But for Connor to want to just. Just take his clothes off, look at him and what, compliment him? "I want to admire you," Connor'd said. He knows Connor thinks he's attractive, but while he can sort of accept that, he isn't sure how well he'll deal with...whatever's about to happen.

But Connor wants it, Hank wants to please Connor, and he knows Connor's going to make him feel good and surely Hank will get to see him come at least once, so. He's going to do it, obviously.

He wishes he didn't feel so anxious, though.

Hank's fingers fumble with the buttons on his shirt as he gets dressed after toweling himself off, but beyond that he feels a bit more confident as he steps out of the bathroom and down the hall to the bedroom, where he assumes Connor is already waiting for him. _It's just Connor_ , he tells himself. Not that Connor can ever really be "just" anything, but. Hank trusts him. And fuck, he wants him, especially when he knows how much Connor wants whatever it is, exactly, that he's about to walk into.

It'll be fine.

It'll be more than fine, he's sure.

Connor's on the bed, waiting for him. He's lying on his stomach, propped up on his forearms watching the door as Hank enters. His long legs stretch out behind him, peeking out of the short pajama shorts, and Hank's tempted to sit next to him and slide his palms up the smooth expanse of Connor's legs, coax him to roll over so he can settle himself in between those soft thighs.

But.

That's not what Hank's here for.

Connor smiles as Hank approaches the bed. "You're so handsome today, Hank," he says, and while it's sincere, it feels like he's testing the waters. Seeing if he can start with a compliment right off the bat and not have Hank push back on it.

"Thanks," Hank mumbles. He stops when his thighs meet the mattress and reaches out to take Connor's hand where he's offered it to him, bending down to press a kiss to his knuckles. "You're running the show, here, right? I want to make this good for you, but I need to know a little more about what you want."

"You have the simple job," Connor says, rising to his knees and pulling Hank gently onto the bed with him, "of letting me admire and touch and take care of you, however I like." He fluffs a pile of pillows at the head of the bed and arranges Hank on it, so he's slightly propped up against the headboard, supported by several pillows.

"I want to make sure I don't do anything you won't enjoy," Connor says. "Is there anywhere I shouldn't touch you, or that I shouldn't say as I'm telling you how incredibly attractive you are? I want you to listen, when I say these things, but I don't want to upset you."

Hank thinks he understands the distinction, here; Connor knows he's pushing Hank a bit,  
that praise or compliments or whatever might be difficult to hear, and he's willing to go ahead with it all the same. But he doesn't want to hit at a more tender spot without knowing about it.

"You can touch me anywhere," Hank says, and means it. "I want you to, sweetheart. Whatever you want to do with me. You know by now what I like, right?"

"Not all of it," Connor says softly. "I'm still learning about you, Hank. I have many ideas about what I'd like to do to you right now, what I want to say to you, but ultimately these things are only appealing if they appeal to you as well."

Hank tilts his head back to stare at the ceiling, so he's not saying the rest of it while staring into Connor's eyes; since he's going to be laid bare soon enough, he wants to take another moment to gather himself first. "I don't...I don't think there's anything you want to say to me I can't hear, but. I don't know how easy it'll be."

"I'll be here," Connor reminds him, and it's both comically obvious and deeply reassuring.

"I won't be so weird about this in a minute, I don't think," Hank says. "I'm a little in my head  
about it."

"Then it's my job," Connor says, straddling Hank's thighs and resting his palms on his chest, "to get you out of your head and into here." He pats Hank's sternum. "Don't think so much, while I take care of you. I want you to feel."

Hank takes a deep breath against the pressure of Connor's hands. "I feel you," he says. He closes his eyes. Connor loosely grips his beard to tilt his face to the side, and Hank reflexively parts his lips in anticipation of a kiss.

Connor doesn't disappoint; a moment later, Hank feels a gentle nip at his lower lip and then Connor is kissing him softly, sighing as he settles on top of Hank's chest.

Hank had forgotten, before Connor, just how much he loves kissing. It all came back very quickly, of course, but it had been so long since he'd been with someone with a particular affinity for it (not to mention an array of sensors that made any sort of oral contact especially exciting) that he hadn't quite remembered how much he missed it until he was able to indulge whenever he wanted, with Connor.

Connor, who's insatiable once he gets going.

Hank groans as Connor's tongue slides slick and soft into his mouth. He unbuttons Hank's shirt with one hand while the other tangles in his hair, and Hank can't help but moan louder and shift his hips when Connor tightens his grip, tugging gently and holding him just where he wants him. The slight sting of Connor's hand in his hair and the hot press of his mouth are a heady combination; already Hank can feel his tension ebbing away as he settles into the bright center of Connor's focus.

"That's it," Connor says, pulling back for a moment. "Let me hear you." He brushes against Hank's nipples as he pushes his shirt open and grins when Hank moans again. "Perfect." He captures Hank's mouth in another kiss, deep and filthy, while he kneads at his chest and rolls a sensitive nipple between his fingers.

"You're delicious," Connor murmurs. "I can't get enough of you." He dips his head down to lick along Hank's collarbone, and the hand that isn't toying with his nipple slips under his opened shirt to rub at the side of his belly. Hank shies away from the touch, for a moment, but when Connor's hand stills and he peers up at Hank, seeking confirmation that it's all right to continue, he exhales and nods.

"Guess it's good that there's plenty of me to go around, then," he says. It's meant to be exactly the sort of self-deprecating comment he knows Connor doesn't want to hear from him, especially right now, but he's so worked up it comes out sultrier than intended, and Connor just grins at him like he'd set a trap and Hank walked straight into it.

"I agree entirely," Connor says. "I'm so lucky to have you." He eases Hank's shirt the rest of the way off, then looks down at him thoughtfully. "Especially like this. I love the sight of you in bed." 

He leans back and cups his hand over Hank's erection, already straining against the soft, worn-in denim, and rubs just hard enough to tease a moan out of him.

"I love knowing I can touch you however I want to."

Hank tries to press up into Connor's hand, but enough of Connor's weight is on his thighs that he can't get leverage. "Please, sweetheart," he says. "Fuck."

"I said I'd take my time with you, didn't I?" Connor says, shaking his head. Hank would be annoyed at the smug look on his face if he wasn't so goddamn turned on. "You have to be patient."

 _Anything you want_ , Hank thinks. He can't bring himself to say it, but from the way Connor's eyes widen and the sharpness of his smile softens a little, he wonders how clearly it must have shown on his face.

"I'll take these off, though," Connor says, "so you'll be more comfortable." He slides between Hank's legs and traces the trail of hair from his navel to the button of his jeans with his hand, then with his tongue.

Hank jolts in surprise at the touch of Connor's mouth, and grasps uncertainly at his hair, unsure if he's trying to pull him away or hold him close. Before he can decide how he feels about having his gut licked, Connor's unzipped his jeans and is already working them off Hank's hips and down his thighs. He takes Hank's hand out of his hair, kisses his palm, and sets it down on the bed.

"Is that your way of telling me 'hands to yourself'?" Hank asks.

Connor kneels between Hank's legs, looking thoughtful. He curls his hands around Hank's ankles, exerting the faintest amount of pressure as if he's imagining pinning him down. "I think it might be," he says. "Is that all right?"

"Hell, this is your show," Hank says. "You're calling the shots, not me."

Connor raises an eyebrow and looks, for a moment, like he wants to discuss this further, but Hank licks his lips and nods, and Connor seems to understand that it's extremely all right, in Hank's opinion, even if it's difficult for him to articulate it.

Of course Hank wants to be able to touch him. He wants to touch Connor nearly all the time. But if Connor wants to take his time, force Hank to be patient, and probably be a huge cocktease before he does much anything, well. 

Maybe Hank likes the thought of having an additional instruction to follow.

"I'll be good," Hank blurts out. It's not what he means to say, not really, but the look Connor gives him when it slips out makes him regret it less.

"What was that, Hank?" Connor asks. He's still kneeling between Hank's legs, still barely touching him. He skims his fingers up Hank's calf and back down to his foot. "I want to make sure I heard you correctly."

"Your hearing's what, ten times better than mine? Of course you heard it."

"Heard what?" He grasps Hank's foot gently and digs his thumbs into the arch, massaging the tenderest part of his sole.

"Connor," Hank groans. Has anyone given him a foot massage before? He can't remember. "I'll--I won't touch you." He isn't sure he can say it again.

"I don't think that's what I heard," Connor says. "As you say, I do have excellent hearing." He sets Hank's foot down gently and stretches out next to him on the bed, one slim thigh slung over Hank's leg, fingers idly carding through his chest hair, lips resting so close to Hank's ear he can hear the faint sound of his simulated breath. "I think," Connor murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of Hank's ear, "in fact I'm certain, I heard you say you'd be good, a moment ago. Am I right?"

Hank nods; he doesn't trust himself to speak at all anymore.

In one smooth motion, Connor sits up, straddling Hank's thigh and teasing his fingers under the waistband of his boxers before Hank even registers that he's moving at all. He continues talking as he eases them down.

Connor grazes his hand against Hank's cock on the way past, a deliberate tease, and Hank can't help the way his hips jerk up, seeking more. "Are you going to be good for me, Hank?"

A wave of heat prickles across his face. "Yeah," he croaks out.

"You'll let me touch you anywhere, and you won't touch me at all?"

Another nod.

"And you'll listen while I tell you how much I want you. How deeply your body arouses me."

Hank closes his eyes. "Yes," he says, finally. "I will."

Hank knows, because he's seen it time and time again, that when Connor has a goal in mind, he pursues it relentlessly. He's seen it when Connor solved cases, when he was determined to learn how to knit, and when he nudged Hank away from keeping hard liquor in the house so subtly and delicately he'd barely realized it wasn't entirely his own idea.

He doesn't think he's ever seen Connor focus on a task as closely as he focuses on Hank's body. His hands wander everywhere, stroking and teasing while he alternates, hot, messy kisses with murmured praise.

Hank feels like he's drowning in the flood of Connor's attention, flowing thick and overwhelming over him, but as intense as it is, as close as his attention skirts to being too much, he can't say he doesn't love it, because of course he does.

It's Connor. How could he not?

"Have you noticed that you've put on weight recently?" Connor asks. He's stroking Hank's cock maddeningly slowly, kissing the softness of his inner thighs while his other hand grabs a handful of his ass.

Hank wants to apologize, or protest; obviously he's noticed, it's his body, but he doesn't understand why Connor wants to bring it up at all, at least not now. The shame that burns through him is enough to make his erection wilt, and he raises himself up on his elbows to look down at Connor, confusion surely evident on his face.

Connor smiles, eyes soft with desire, and licks his thigh again. "I certainly have," he says. "I love it." He slides his thumb into Hank's navel and squeezes the soft curve below it in his hand.

"Uh," Hank says, unprepared for this turn of events.

"Mmm." Connor kneels between Hank's thighs with a sigh and unbuttons his shirt with one hand while he continues to knead at Hank's belly and sides with the other. He lets it hang open while he shimmies out of his shorts, and Hank's fingers twitch with the urge to trace a path connecting the moles scattered across his chest.

"This is what your body does to me," Connor says, wrapping a hand around the base of his cock. It's hard and leaking, and Connor closes his eyes for a moment as he thrusts gently into his hand. "I've always been attracted to your size, always loved how big you are." He punctuates his words with a gentle pat to the side of Hank's gut. "To see you bigger, well. I can only love that more."

Hank face is burning, but whether it's from shame or arousal he can't determine. Maybe a bit of both.

"It's hard not to touch you like this all the time," Connor says. "You're soft and sturdy in equal measure and it's so pleasurable just to feel you under my hands, or pressed against me."

"You like all this, huh?" Hank asks. He lets himself exhale the rest of the breath he hadn't quite realized he'd been holding in.

Connor nods, transfixed. "Your entire body is intoxicating to me," he says quietly. 

Hank's cock had wilted to half-hardness in his momentary discomfort, but when Connor pauses in stroking himself long enough to rub his thumb over the head of his cock and smear a slick of precome down his shaft, then slots their dicks together and wraps his hand as far around both of them as he can before rutting against Hank, he's back in business in record time.

"Fuck," he moans weakly, as he feels the hot friction of Connor's cock against his own. It feels good, but the view...the view is so much better. Connor's eyes are dark and full of desire, and his long, lovely fingers grip and pull at Hank's cock as much as they can, even if their combined girth is enough that he's hardly able to hold them both at once.

Hank could help, could wrap one of his massive hands around the rest of the way to make a tunnel they could both fuck into together--and the thought of that is enough to make his hips stutter and his cock pulse and harden further--but he knows better than to try and put his hands  
to use right now.

He'll be good.

Hank's embarrassment hasn't died down entirely, but it can't get a foothold in him for long in the face of Connor's pure, honest desire. "What else do you want, sweetheart?" Hank asks, panting, as he ruts up into Connor's hand in shallow thrusts. "I know there was more."

"So many things." Connor's gaze unfocuses and his LED stutters as if he's filling the room with preconstructions of everything he'd like to do with Hank. Every way he's thought of that they could take each other apart. After a few moments he sighs, slows his hand, and grins down at Hank. "Can you reach the bottle on the bedside table for me?"

Hank manages to look away from Connor long enough to see one of the Cyberlife-branded bottles of lubricant waiting there; he'd missed it entirely, when he entered the room. It only made  
sense that his observational skills would go to shit when Connor was in the room; why would he want to look anywhere but at him? "Oh god," he moans, "are you gonna fuck me?"

"Just with my fingers, tonight," Connor says, "but eventually, yes. If you like."

Hank can't quite put the words together to describe how much he likes the idea, how badly he wants Connor to pound him into the goddamn mattress, but he hopes the speed at which he grabs the lube and hands it to Connor, so clumsy in his excitement that he nearly drops the bottle, gets the idea across.

Connor grabs a spare pillow and tucks it under Hank's hips before settling between his thighs. "There you go," he says, admiring the position he's arranged him into. "Are you ready for me?" He strokes his hand along Hank's thigh from his hip to his knee; firm, steady pressure to  
calm the nerves that had Hank's hands shaking a moment ago. 

Hank's struck by Connor's gentleness; so far he's been swept along by the unstoppable force of his intensity, a delicious torrent of attention and sensation, but moments like these are precious as well. A momentary reprieve, he thinks; surely Connor's wildness will be out in full force soon enough. He nods, but Connor just tilts his head and keeps petting his leg. "Ready," he says. "You're still running this show, honey, you can get going whenever you want. Don't have to wait on me."

"You said it had been a while, since you'd had anal sex of any kind," Connor says smoothly. "I want to make sure I'm taking things at a reasonable pace." 

"I'm out of practice, maybe, but I'm not made of glass," Hank grumbles. "Connor, I want it, you know I do. Do I need to offer you an engraved invitation?" He bends one leg and hooks his arm under his knee to hold it up.

"It would be rude not to accept an invitation this appealing," Connor murmurs, and he kisses the exposed underside of Hank's thigh. "But as I said before, I intend to take my time with you. We're moving on my schedule, not yours, and I'd like to enjoy you thoroughly and slowly."

The way Connor says "enjoy you" sends a wave of heat through Hank's body; once again, Connor's looking at him like he's a particularly luscious dessert. _He's already taken a few bites  
out of me_, Hank thinks, _but now he looks about ready to eat me alive._

As if he'd read Hank's thoughts, Connor grins and presses a wet, messy kiss to the base of Hank's cock. "Do you remember what else I asked, earlier?" He sucks the thick head of Hank's cock into his mouth, lips stretching wide to fit it in, and his eyes roll back.

A deep, low moan forces its way out of Hank's throat. 

"That's right," Connor says, lips wet with his saliva and Hank's precome, once he pulls back again. "I want to hear you." His mouth travels lower, licking and sucking at Hank's cock, then his balls, then just behind.

"Christ, Connor, are you--" 

Hank's question trails off into a strangled, surprised grunt when it becomes clear that yes, he is.  
Connor laps at Hank's hole, tongue hot and slick as he teases with short, tentative flicks before he flattens it out and licks at him, wet and filthy and absolutely perfect. "Aw, fuck," Hank moans; he tries to formulate a more coherent response but his mind is more concerned with thoughts of _wet_ and _heat_ and _holy shit_ to come up with anything else.

"Every inch of you is delicious," Connor moans. His hands grope and knead at Hank's plush thighs, holding them wide for better access. He's never felt so exposed, but. He's never felt so safe, either.

He hears the squeeze of the bottle of lube and turns his head, throwing his arm over his face. His skin feels too hot, too tight, too alive with need; he wants this, but he worries he'll vibrate out of his skin before Connor can touch him. "Connor," he pants, "please. Please."

The cool touch of lube against his heated skin sends a shock through him, but he sighs and settles into Connor's touch as he rubs the pad of a finger across his entrance, easing him into the sensation. Hank wants to press back against it, to wrap his leg over Connor's shoulder and urge him forward, but he waits. He knows Connor'll take care of him.

"Will you look at me?"

The question surprises Hank, and he props his arm behind his head, blinking down at Connor.

"I want to watch you," Connor says, and his finger slides across his hole with just a bit more pressure, a further intention. Hank can't help but roll his hips this time, trying to urge him to push a little more. "That's it," Connor purrs. He lets his finger sink in further, past the first tight ring of resistance, and waits for Hank to relax and take him inside.

"Gorgeous," Connor sighs, as his finger slides deeper. "You open so beautifully for me."

Connor's pupils are blown wide, gaze shifting between Hank's face and the point where he and Hank are joined. He moves his hand slowly, carefully, but it doesn't take Hank long to adjust to the feeling. It feels good, of course, but just knowing it's Connor inside him makes it so much better, like he can feel the warmth of his affection radiating out from where his hand presses inside.

"How do you feel?" Connor asks.

"Fuck," Hank says. "Feels good. Perfect." He rocks his hips, urging Connor on. "You can add another, if you want."

"Do _you_ want it?"

Connor's clearly already aware of the answer; Hank knows he wants to hear him say it.

"Yeah, I just. I need a little more."

Hank can't help a low sigh of disappointment when Connor slips his finger out to add more lube, but he appreciates it all the same. Connor reaches up to tease and pinch Hank's nipples while he spreads the lube on his fingers and around the rim of Hank's hole and his sigh turns into a surprised inhale at the first sharp snap of sensation. "How do you know the perfect place to touch me, every time?" he asks. "Fuck."

"I love observing what arouses you the most," Connor says, lips brushing against his straining cock as he speaks. Hank tries to thrust up against him but Connor leans his weight on his hips, holding him down. "You also give excellent feedback." He rubs his first two fingers, both slick and warm, against Hank's entrance, and there's almost no resistance as Hank relaxes and lets his body welcome them inside. 

The noise Hank makes when Connor first brushes his prostate is a deep groan, and his leg flexes so suddenly that he nearly kicks Connor in the face.

"Oh fuck, that--that's good, baby, right there, yeah," he babbles, barely aware of what he's saying. "I forgot how..." he trails off, focusing on the feeling of sparks crackling and spreading deep inside himself.

"What was that?" Connor asks, pressing just a bit harder against his prostate as he starts a maddenly slow tempo of gentle thrusts with his fingers.

He prompts Hank again, when he doesn't answer.

"What did you forget?"

"How--oh god--how fuckin good this is," Hank says, finally.

"I'll have to remind you regularly." Connor rests his head on Hank's thigh for a moment, then says, "I turned the sensitivity of my manual sensors down, but I'm going to readjust them back to their normal levels, if that's all right."

Hank just nods and makes the most affirmative sound he can muster; thankfully Connor understands. "I wanted you to adjust first," he explains, "because I worried I'd have a harder time keeping control of myself if I could feel you completely."

"Please," Hank says, "I need you to feel me like I'm feeling you right now." He wraps his other leg around Connor's back as much as he can, pulling him closer. "Maybe I want you to lose control a little."

Connor's LED flashes for a moment, then he whines and his fingers stutter in their smooth motion. "Ah!" he cries out, grasping Hank's hip so hard it's likely to bruise, later. "You feel amazing. It's wonderful to be so deep inside you."

Connor gasps and shakes for a moment more, seemingly overcome by the sensations his sensitive fingertips are experiencing inside Hank, but he quickly regains enough of his composure to resume fucking Hank with his fingers, slow and precise and so, so good.

Every time Hank reflexively tightens around him, Connor sighs or moans at the feel of it, sometimes driving into Hank a little harder as a result. He angles his fingers just right so that they keep nudging his prostate; he varies the intensity of the pressure but it's a constant, rhythmic contact that has Hank sweating and groaning out a constant stream of "fuck, yes, fuck, fuck, oh god..." neatly in time with the motion of Connor's hand.

Connor pauses for a moment, withdrawing his fingers nearly all the way to apply more lube; he squirts out what looks like much more than he needs, but as he slides back in, more forcefully this time, he wraps his other hand, now also slicked up, around Hank's cock and starts to stroke him in time.

Hank moans loudly enough that he might be embarrassed if he wasn't so distracted by how fucking good everything feels, and Connor responds by quickening his pace. "Con--baby--I won't last long like this," he grits out.

"That's all right, Hank, I want to see you," Connor says soothingly. He looks close to the edge as well; as Hank moans and flexes his thighs beneath him, Connor moves more erratically, knocking himself out of the smooth tempo he's established. "You're so lovely, taking me like this. Letting me inside you. Letting me bring you pleasure. It feels good, doesn't it?"

"Fuck, so good," Hank pants. "I can't--" He throws a hand over his face. "It's almost too much, but it's--fuck, it's perfect."

"I love that I can do this to you," Connor says, almost frantic. "That I'm the one who gets to."

"Only you," Hank says. He feels like a sweaty mess, like he's about to explode or break down or come so hard he passes out, he doesn't know exactly what it is, but he's full of something that needs to get out. It's overwhelming, nearly too much, but still he knows it can never be enough. 

He'll never get his fill of Connor. He'll always want more.

"Please," he says, reaching for Connor's hand where it's fisted around his cock, where he's rutting up into it. "I need you to--"

"Shh, of course," Connor says, and he takes Hank's hand, interlacing their fingers and leaning up to press a desperate, messy kiss to his knuckles. "I'm here. Let go, love, I've got you."

Tears prickle at the corners of Hank's eyes and he holds onto Connor's hand like it's the only thing tethering him to the earth. Pleasure pools low and hot in his groin, and Connor twists and presses his fingers in a way that wrenches a sob out of him.

"Just like that," Connor murmurs, curving his fingers to spark that intense, almost frightening pleasure again and again while Hank cries out and squeezes Connor's hand so hard he's half-afraid he'll break it.

The tears that have been threatening to fall spill down Hank's cheeks at last; he comes with a  
strangled shout and starts to cry in earnest. Connor eases him through it, slowing his pace until his hand has stilled, fingers still buried inside but no longer in motion.

Hank sniffles and tries to regain his composure, but when it's clear that he can't, Connor kisses his hand again and eases his fingers free. "I'll be right back," he says, and Hank buries his head in the pillow and tries to breathe normally as he hears Connor turn on the faucet and rummage around in the kitchen. He's embarrassed, in a way, but also so wrung out that he can't quite find the energy to feel as self-conscious about blubbering into the pillow like a baby after sex as he would otherwise.

Fuck, he...he doesn't know when he'd last felt like that. When he'd ever felt like that, maybe.

Connor steps quietly back into the room, and he hears the soft jingle of Sumo's collar as he follows. A cold nose snuffs at the hand that's lying near the edge of the bed, and Hank manages to raise it enough to clumsily pat Sumo on the head. "Hey, buddy," he mumbles.

"And hey, sweetheart," he says, as Connor kneels on the bed beside him and hands him a bottle of gatorade. He cracks it open and chugs half of it in one go, while Connor wipes him clean with a warm washcloth.

"C'mere," Hank says, still sniffling a little, as he collapses back against the pillows. Connor tosses the washcloth into the laundry basket and sits against the headboard, arranging himself so Hank can lay his head in his lap. He combs through Hank's hair with one hand and rests the other on Hank's chest, where it's quickly wrapped up in one of Hank's.

Hank struggles to get his breathing under control, but after several minutes of Connor gently scratching his scalp and stroking his forehead, he starts to feel like a person again. He kisses the back of Connor's hand and says, "never had someone fuck me so good I cried before. That's new."

"How are you feeling?" Connor asks. "Did I push too hard?"

Hank can't bear the thought of Connor thinking he'd been anything but perfect. "No, no," he says. "Come here." He pulls Connor down beside him and wraps his arms around him, smushing his face into his chest a little, but. He knows it's his favorite spot to be, so surely he won't mind.

"That was," Hank starts, but he has no idea how to continue. He kisses Connor's forehead and holds him as close as he can. "Thank you. I'm still, uh, catching my breath, I guess."

"That's all right," Connor says into his cleavage. "Take your time."

"I know that was a fantasy of yours," Hank says. "Hope I didn't break the mood or anything."

"That was just what I wanted," Connor says. "You were beautiful."

"You keep saying that."

Connor shrugs. "I like to remind you."

"It's just--"

Connor leans in and kisses Hank to shut him up.

"I think," Connor says, after a few minutes of distraction, "the concept of beauty must mean something very different for humans and androids. If no one's called you beautiful before now, maybe it's my duty to make up for it by telling you as often as I can." He runs his fingers through Hank's beard. "I don't want to make you uncomfortable, but it's important to me to let you know how I feel."

"How are you so goddamn sweet?" Hank blinks back more tears that threaten to fall. The fact that Connor's here, not just in his bed but in his life, making every moment better, has never felt more strange or precious than it does now.

Connor doesn't have an answer for him, but the way he winds his arms around Hank and clings to him like a vine is an answer all its own, he figures.

They stay like that for a while. Hank drifts a bit, not sleeping but dozily petting Connor's back and thinking about all the things he wants. To take Connor on that trip outside the city to hike in the fall. To see him with a job he chose because he wants it, not because he was made for it. To watch the seasons change, and get older, and not dread every new day because there's someone he loves who he can share it with. To--

To bring Connor to the cemetery with me someday, he thinks, and the moment the thought comes to mind he knows he wants to ask soon. Thinks he might actually be able to do it.  
Eventually, Connor stirs in his arms; Hank wonders if he'd slipped into stasis for a few minutes.

"I need to get ready for my knitting circle," Connor says, half-apologetically. "It's an important meeting this week, I think; I'd love to stay with you, but--"

"Nah, you should go," Hank says, urging him out of bed and following after him as he starts to get dressed. "Go have a good time, and let me know if you want me to pick you up again, all right? I might take Sumo to the park in a bit."

Connor's quiet as he pulls on his clothes and bundles his cardigan into his project bag, but he looks cheerful; he keeps sneaking glances at Hank and eventually starts baby-talking to Sumo about how much fun he'll have with the other doggies at the park.

It had only been a half-formed thought in Hank's head when he said it, but now he knows he  
has to go; he can't let Connor get excited about the thought of Sumo romping with other dogs and then tell him he stayed at home instead. 

He sees Connor out the door with a handful of sweet, lingering kisses, then slumps down onto the couch with a sigh.

"What the hell," he asks Sumo, who bumps his snout into Hank's hands for more attention, "did either of us do to deserve him?"

Sumo licks Hank's hand and wags harder.

"You want to go to the park, buddy? So I'm not just rattling around here while Connor's away?" He grabs the leash and Sumo barks happily.

Hank has the realization, as he's tossing Sumo's favorite slobber-covered ball around the dog park, that he feels...good. Content. He's a little sore, sure, but it's a grounding, reassuring sort of soreness, and he figures "had a lot of sex in a few days" is a pretty good reason to be a little achy. Some of the pain is entirely welcome; he presses two fingertips to a bruise Connor'd sucked into his chest and smiles at the soft ache of it, and at the memory of how it got there. 

Even the heat, as oppressive as it is, isn't bothering him as much as it has for the past couple weeks.

It's more than that, though. Hank's used to feeling an undercurrent of distrust or anger any time he's in a good mood; he's always sure it can't last, and that he doesn't deserve to feel that way to begin with. He's sure that instinctive response isn't gone entirely, but for the moment, even as he prods gently at his thoughts the same way he'd just pressed against his bruise from the night before, it doesn't rise to the surface. It's a distant pain, probably one that will always be present, but somehow he's able to acknowledge it without it dragging him down.

He's happy.

"Well, fuck," he says out loud to Sumo, when he lumbers back and drops his tennis ball at Hank's feet before flopping down in a patch of soft grass in the shade. "Who woulda thought, huh?" He scratches behind Sumo's ears. "You ready to head on back, buddy?"

Hank buys a pineapple popsicle from a vendor hanging out by the dog park entrance, and the sun's so hot it begins to melt and drip onto his hand the moment he unwraps it; he eats it quickly before it can melt entirely. His hand's sticky by the time he's finished and he thinks about how Connor would probably tease him by trying to lick it clean, if he had come along.

Back home, Sumo drinks an entire bowl of water and retreats to his bed, where he starts snoring immediately, but Hank still feels like he has some energy. He'd had a song in his head while he was at the park, and he digs through his milk crate of records to find the album it's on.

Once Dave Brubeck's spinning on the turntable, he continues flipping through the records, setting aside a few he thinks Connor might enjoy. They'd listened to some music together not long after Connor had come to live with him, but it had been a while since Hank had played some of his collection for him. Maybe he'd enjoy cuddling on the couch and listening to records, tonight.

After an hour of sorting through records and listening to some old favorites, Hank's just starting to wonder if Connor had returned to the cafe to do more impromptu knitting instruction after the regular meetup was over when he hears footsteps on the front porch.

"Hey, sweetheart," he says, standing to greet Connor with a kiss as he steps inside. "Did your meetup run long today?"

"Not exactly," Connor says, and while he's cheerful enough, Hank can sense some tension behind his smile. "Annie wanted to speak with me once we were finished." 

"She owns the shop you meet at, right?"

Connor nods and takes Hank's hand and leads him to the couch, where he leans into Hank the moment they're both seated. Hank takes the obvious hint and wraps his arm around Connor's shoulder, pulling him closer.

"Okay, so what's up?" Hank asks. "You seem a little worked up right now. There isn't a problem with your knitting group, is there?"

"She offered me a job," Connor says, and fuck, Hank doesn't know what he was expecting, but he knows it wasn't that.

"No shit?" Hank grins and kisses Connor's forehead. "That's great, tell me about it."

"It would be part time only, for now, but she offered the same pay the outgoing employee was making, which is significantly more than minimum wage for androids. In addition to that, she's been thinking about offering more classes and individual instruction in the store, and asked if I'd like to lead some of those." 

Hank thinks back to seeing Connor explaining things to his friends the week before, how attentively they listened to him and how comfortable he seemed to be in that role. He imagines him in a nicely-lit store full of soft and colorful yarn, gently instructing a group of people how to start a new project. "That sounds perfect for you," he says. "Are you going to go for it?"

"I think so," Connor says. "I've enjoyed working with you, of course, but the thought of having to hide our relationship for much longer is deeply frustrating, and to be honest I've been wondering for a while if this is a move I should make. If I should step further outside of the life that I was designed to have." His words tumble out in a rush, and Hank wonders if he practiced what he was going to say on the way home. He takes Connor's hand as he continues. "When I think about the life I want, one of the most important facets of it is choosing things for myself, not continuing down paths that were chosen for me before I ever existed."

"Of course," Hank says. "You should do something you care about, if you have the chance. Like you said, I don't want to tiptoe around at work and worry about people looking to start trouble. I want to be able to put my arm around you whenever I damn well please." He pats Connor's shoulder. "Just like this."

"But more than that," he continues, "I want you to do something with your time that you can feel good about or believe in or whatever. I'm long past the point of feeling idealistic about my work, but you love this shit, don't you? Creating things, having something to do with your hands. And helping other people figure it out, too. I saw you doing it last week; people listen to you when you explain things. You're good at it." He squeezes Connor's hand and feels his grip tighten in return. "I'm excited for you."

"I hoped you would be."

"Were you worried I wouldn't like the idea?"

Connor shrugs. "It's a big change. I thought it was possible you'd be less excited than I am about it."

Hank brings Connor's hand to his mouth and kisses his knuckles, enjoying the way Connor's eyes flutter closed at the touch of his lips. "Look at us, Connor. We've already had a lot of big changes here lately, and we're doing all right, aren't we?"

"That's true," Connor says. "I was worried that this might be one too many."

"Nah. Plus, not seeing you at work just means I'll get to come home to you every night."

"Oh," Connor says. Hank kisses his hand again. "Why do I like the sound of that so much?"

"And you'll come home to me."

"That sounds even better."

Hank can't think of anything he wants more in that moment than to kiss Connor again (and dance with him to old records, and take him to bed, and wake up next to him day after day), and the wildest fucking thing of all is that he can do all these things now, whenever he wants, so: he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who followed along when this was originally being posted as a twitter thread, & everyone who's found and enjoyed this fic here as well. This is by FAR the longest thing I've ever written, and it's weird to be done with it after living with it since the end of September.  
> On to the next project, though!! :)   
> Please say hi on [twitter](http://twitter.com/robofingering) if you like!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Become Someone New (To Him; To You)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25768864) by [MorganEAshton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorganEAshton/pseuds/MorganEAshton)




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